Time Out
by mariu100
Summary: With a madman on the loose and the unthinkable about to happen, Brennan is forced to confront her worst fears-will the specter of tragedy push her away from the one person she can't imagine being without?
1. The Call

The call came early, while Booth was still in the shower. It did nothing to improve Brennan's already precarious mood, and she ended the conversation with a barely repressed frown marring her features. Another shooting at a mall with the same modus operandi as the others, but instead of being able to go with her partner to do her usual post-mortem examination of the crime scene, she was needed, _needed_ in the lab.

She went back into the bathroom to finish drying her hair, still in the process of digesting the hidden meaning behind the phoned request as she wiped a clean swath across the mirror with the back of her hand, when she heard the shower being turned off. Booth came out dripping, and rather than reaching for a towel, his hands went around her growing belly from behind pulling her close, dampening her silk robe everywhere his steaming, wet body made contact with hers. The act not only startled her, it also added to her unsettled frame of mind.

She couldn't know that just before emerging from the shower, Booth had taken the liberty of doing the math on their behalf. It hadn't taken him long to reach the conclusion-without her input-that they still had at least half an hour of free time before they had to leave the house. A lot of things could be accomplished in thirty minutes, especially if they dressed fast and picked up breakfast on the way to work.

As he held her, Booth thought about how thoroughly irresistible she looked standing there barefoot, her new, exciting contours barely hidden by that filmy robe, doing battle with a brush and a hairdryer. It continually blew him away that a woman could look so desirable so early in the morning, even with her hair a wet, tangled mass, and not a shred of makeup on. And the true shocker? That the woman in question was his. Maybe it wasn't always the wisest thing to give in to impulse, but this morning, here alone with her in the quiet intimacy of what had slowly evolved into their everyday routine, he was completely convinced of the fact that nothing could go wrong between them today.

Brennan looked up into the streaked mirror to find Booth's face perched innocently on her shoulder, smiling at her slightly distorted reflection. In theory, she thought it was entirely possible that his could have been a purely guileless smile, but in that instant, just minutes after the aggravating phone call from Cam, she could have sworn that it was dangerously close to being a smirk. But after a moment of forced reflection, she grumpily conceded that she was feeling particularly snappish right now, so a smart-alecky grin may not have been the expression he was actually going for.

Either way, he wasn't getting the benefit of the doubt.

"Please don't do that" she said icily, as one of his hands parted the front of the robe just a little to settle on her stomach and then started sliding higher, towards what she knew he considered to be even more attention-worthy regions. "You're getting me all wet, and I'm not in the mood to be touched at the present moment."

_Okaaay_, Booth thought uncertainly.

Thrown off a little by the comment and the acid tone in her voice, he studied her face in the mirror to see whether she was really upset at him or just moody because she hadn't been sleeping well lately. Honestly, he couldn't tell. So he made the executive decision to keep on going, hoping to salvage the decidedly iffy situation. His hand, however, stopped its upwards progression just in case.

"Why? I'm just checking up on how big the baby has gotten. I love this new part of you" he said huskily, pressing her against him tighter, his fingers splayed protectively over the swell of her abdomen.

There was supposed to be a compliment in there somewhere, and he was positive if she looked hard enough she would find it, but as soon as he spoke the words her sour face made it clear that regardless of good intentions, it was the wrong thing to say. He shook his head sadly. By now he should be well past the point of knowing that he should never mention size-any kind of size, no matter how harmless it seemed-to a pregnant woman, but sometimes, like now, he accidentally got lulled into a false sense of security by their new domestic situation and it caused him to say the stupidest things.

Still, even though the comment evidently came out all wrong and her water-stained silk robe was not exactly looking its best after the recent wet embrace, he was left scratching his head over why she suddenly seemed so upset with him this morning over something so minor, when things had been so good between them last night. Really, _really_ good, if he could be perfectly honest.

They had been in bed reading when she turned to him, looking somewhat crestfallen. Depressed, even.

"Angela dragged me to a maternity store against my will today. I told her that most of the items in my regular wardrobe are still viable clothing options for me considering that I'm barely seven months along in my pregnancy and I'm not all that large. I insisted that I didn't need to purchase anything else at this time, but she said that I should try to showcase my condition in a more effective manner and not, and I quote, 'go around looking like I'm trying to cover it up like some compromised teenager from a bad 50's soap.' She even offered me some of her own pregnancy clothes once again, although it's quite obvious to both of us that our tastes and physiques are markedly different. It didn't come up in our conversation, but I'm pretty sure the word "frumpy" crossed her mind in reference to my appearance."

"Angela would never say that about you. It's probably just because you're still wearing a lot of your regular clothes. I know you're picking out some of your roomier stuff, but some of it looks…." _Oh Jesus,_ he thought, suddenly panicking; "_please, please give me the right words here…_"

She got tired of waiting for him to find them.

"Frumpy. You can go ahead and say it, Booth. You and Angela, and probably everyone else, all think I look frumpy. Frumpy and unattractive." She didn't seem angry, just apathetically resigned to her fate.

He stared at her in thunderstruck disbelief. "Bones, you are _so_ incredibly beautiful; even if you walked around wearing a potato sack and nothing else, you could never look frumpy-ever. You're just pregnant, and the bigger clothes that aren't maternity don't fit you right, especially since you can't wear them with belts anymore; they kind of swallow you up. That's what Angela meant by showcasing your condition, and not hiding it. Carrying a baby for nine months is an amazing, miraculous thing, and it could never make a woman-least of all you-look unattractive. There, did I just redeem myself, or what?" he asked with a smile.

"So you _don't_ think that I currently look unattractive?" The very real doubt in her voice surprised him-he had very seldom ever gotten anything but head-on self-confidence from her.

He put his magazine down, along with her book, and leaned over her.

"Beautiful" he murmured softly, raising the hem of her t-shirt over her abdomen.

"Everywhere."

He kissed her stomach as he pulled the shirt further up, over her head, and then his mouth went on to sample the bounty of her full breasts.

"Every…single…inch…of…you" he whispered in between kisses. His lips were on neck, and then in the space directly behind her ear, and finally on her lips as he mindlessly helped her out of her pajama bottoms and then shimmied out of his own clothes.

"You really think so?" The question came from somewhere different than before, and he was satisfied that it no longer meant anything at all because her arms had gone around him just as he carefully climbed on top of her, and her mouth was back on his full force; there was no way she could expect an answer when her tongue was so thoroughly entangled with his.

Interrupting the kiss briefly, he gave her one anyway.

"You think I would be this turned on every single time I see you-in and out of your clothes, any clothes-if I didn't think you were the most gorgeous thing alive? Temperance Brennan in my bed, pregnant with my kid-god-it's the sexiest thing I've ever seen."

It was the last thing he would say for a while that made much sense to either one of them, as he went on to give her some proof of just how desirable he found her.

Such a comforting, easy night between the two of them, so why on earth had the baby comment elicited such a strong and negative response just now when yesterday he had used almost the very same words to much better, and satisfying, effect?

Women, you could work with them, live with them, love and be loved by them, but for as long as you lived, you would never understand them. Not a chance.


	2. Betrayal at Home

"Are you mad at me? Did I do something?" Booth asked, with a preemptive apology already forming in his head to fix whatever it was she felt he'd done wrong.

Shrugging her way out of his embrace and turning around to face him, Booth was immediately taken aback by the white-hot sparks that were flying in his direction; he could feel the wilting winds of the approaching firestorm before she even opened her mouth.

"Cam called this morning. There's been another shooting," she began in a deceptively flat tone. "But apparently, the lab can no longer function without me, so I can't accompany you to the crime scene like I customarily do."

Cam's no-nonsense command was still ringing in her ears, but it was Booth's voice she kept hearing. She just wanted to make sure.

Brennan watched him closely, as if he were a bone fragment under a microscope, and quickly found confirmation of her suspicions in his wide-eyed, "what, me?" silence. So much for his vaunted poker-face.

So he _was_ the correct person to blame for this morning's predicament after all, she concluded moodily. The discovery wasn't nearly as satisfying of a victory as she had thought it would be, though.

"You spoke to Cam, didn't you? You asked her to keep me away from the field and immured in the Jeffersonian."

"What? Um…what makes you think that? You don't go with me everywhere, Bones. You never have."

Well, she conceded with little by way of gratitude, at least he had the decency to avoid a flat-out denial. A lie of that magnitude would have really infuriated her beyond all restraint.

"You don't want me there, Booth, admit it," she spat out angrily. "Just because pregnancy causes blood flow to concentrate more heavily in the uterus doesn't mean that it doesn't reach the brain. I've been observing you interview suspects long enough to have learned when someone is prevaricating. You're using your influence with your friend and my professional superior to keep me from doing the things that I need to do in order to perform my job properly. You've _truly_ overstepped your boundaries this time. It's not only highly unethical, it's also a form of personal betrayal."

He sighed heavily, knowing that he was in a heap of trouble, with no way of getting out of it gracefully. Her reaction wasn't all that unexpected; he was just hoping she wouldn't put two and two together so quickly.

It's not as if he hadn't considered more than once being honest with her about what he was doing and not simply going straight for the deception route. He was, after all, enmeshed in a relationship with one of the smartest people on the planet-there was almost no likelihood that she wouldn't figure things out eventually. But at the time he had spoken with Cam, literally throwing himself at her feet and begging for her help, it just seemed easier to go around Bones rather than through her, for all the good it was doing now. And when wasn't this generally the best alternative with her? So what if he was a coward when it came to the woman he loved; he would admit to it without a lick of shame, and he dared another man to handle life with his partner any better. Brilliant, stubborn as a mule, irascible. Irascible _and_ pregnant. Best of luck to you, buster.

As he grabbed a towel and wrapped it round himself, suddenly feeling very naked under the cold menace of that unblinking stare, Booth took just the smallest of comforts in the fact that she wasn't saying anything else; maybe the worst of the lecture was over, and they could take a breather. He could certainly use one.

Wishful thinking aside, his instincts couldn't have been further off.

Because she was just getting started. The pressure had been building for months and it was only a reluctant admission of her relative inexperience with a relationship as profound and complex as theirs that had kept her from unequivocally expressing her displeasure over his maneuvering sooner, perhaps fearing she would say too much and then come to regret her impulsiveness later. And she didn't like to apologize.

This latest incident couldn't be ignored, though, no matter at what personal cost to her later. Booth meddling in her personal life was one thing-nutrition and rest advice she could tolerate with a quick roll of the eyes; interference with her professional affairs, however, was a transgression of an entirely different order, particularly when it hampered her ability to assist in a case as important as this latest one. She wasn't a child and she wasn't his property, and it was time he understood that. She took a step forward, her hands firmly planted on her hips and her chest heaving with weeks and weeks of repressed frustration.

"It's particularly insulting to think that you believe I lack the necessary mental acuity to discern what you've been consistently trying to do behind my back ever since you found out I was pregnant. I've actually known for quite a while, even if I chose not to say anything before. It's also incredibly condescending of you to assume that just because I'm pregnant I've ceased being able to exercise good judgment when it comes to my personal safety, and that of our unborn child. I don't need to remind you that I've survived countless dangerous situations long before I ever met you. You've taken the liberty of presuming that just because we are having a child together, that gives you the right to determine what risks I can and cannot take. You did it rather blatantly at least once before when you went to an investigation site without me and lied about what you were doing, and I won't stand for it again Booth, so stop. I drove away and left you behind that one time, and I can do it again, maybe in a more permanent fashion this time."

He held his hands up, hoping for a truce.

"Okay, okay. I admit, maybe I did some stuff I shouldn't have and maybe I did overstep my boundaries a little, but it's only because I worry about you. This time, this time it's different, Bones; this case…" he shook his head. "Look, we'll talk about it, I promise. I'm sure we can figure something out. Let's just get to work now, though, okay? I'll drop you off at the Jeffersonian, and we can discuss things in the car or maybe later over dinner. Just please calm down and I swear I'll explain my side of things if you give me the chance."

Booth knew that avoidance was never an optimal tactic in a fight, but at least it might buy him some time. She might cool off a little in the meantime, and Angela could probably be able to plead his case to her at the lab better than he could right now. Because this situation _was_ different, and maybe he was too invested in it to ever be able to give her a coherent explanation. Besides, there was no getting to her when she was in such a snit.

Brennan pointedly ignored his pacifying efforts and went on with her outburst, which had been a long time in the making and could no longer be held in.

"The only reason I'm going to the lab right now rather than to the location of this new shooting is that I've been given a direct order by my superior to do so. The next time, I may have to take matters into my own hands, even if it means going around both you and Cam. Don't doubt for a second that my services at the Jeffersonian aren't valuable enough for me to have that kind of leverage there."

She spun around, practically slamming the hairdryer and brush against the counter as she began to make her exit.

"Oh, and by the way, I don't need a ride to work, Booth" she said in a tone that dared him to disagree with that decision. "I'm driving there on my own-or do you object to that activity as being too dangerous as well?" she asked defiantly. She shoved her way past him, literally pushing him out of the way, and walked towards the bedroom.

If he was hoping to catch her in there to plead his case a little more before the ongoing hostilities escalated to the point of open, bloody warfare, he soon saw he wasn't going to get the chance.

Almost as soon as she walked into their room she walked right back out, with some clothes and a pair of shoes in hand, and headed down the stairs. Evidently, she was too mad to even want to be in the same room with him for even a few seconds longer.

Booth puffed out his cheeks, still reeling from the unexpected tongue-lashing that had just come his way, and let out a slow breath. Things were never easy in their house, were they? Why could she never see things from his point of view?

What was already a disastrously bad start to the day turned even worse when he looked into the mirror. His emerging stubble had already hardened, making shaving difficult if not downright life-threatening at this point, and his hair had dried standing on end, like spikes on a sea urchin. Overall, he looked ridiculous, with just a touch of the pathetic thrown in there for an added bonus.

As he went back into the shower to wet everything back down, essentially having to start his day all over again, he was left ruing the fact that other things in his life couldn't be so easily mended.


	3. Ruminations

Brennan knew her words had made some kind of impact by the way Booth looked-shocked and corralled-when she flew past him, but that didn't mean she was willing to forgive and forget right away. Her frustrations might have been given some freedom of movement just now, but there was lots more where that came from. What she desperately wanted right now was some distance from Booth, and not just while they were apart during working hours. The verdict was in: she should have hung on to her condo, if only in case of emergencies. And today felt like an emergency.

That a man, any man, could have the gall to attempt to restrict her behavior, limit her activities just because they were romantically involved…simply unacceptable. Unacceptable and highly obnoxious.

Next thing she knew, he would be telling her that her ill-humor was only her pregnancy hormones acting up, and that she really shouldn't be so prickly and unreasonable. It was most certainly what he was already thinking. Maybe he would top it off by insisting that she stay at home for the next two and half months to avoid tripping and getting hurt on the way to the lab; work from home, never getting to hold an actual bone in her hand-just looking at it on a computer monitor. Her blood pressure rose just thinking about these scenarios-although she knew they were probably gross exaggerations-and a small Braxton-Hicks contraction simultaneously came on out of nowhere, as if to put an exclamation point on her indignation.

No matter how close they were, it wasn't his place-and it would never be-to dictate how she lived her life, baby or no baby. She had let the tornado incident slide relatively unnoticed with barely a slap on the wrist, and in hindsight, that had been a mistake. This one, this one had to be met head on.

She'd witnessed Booth's over-protective tendencies many a time, particularly when it came to her, but he had never gone so far as to involve other people in his schemes. Not unless you counted Sweets, and she didn't-he was far too immature and star-struck with Booth to be held accountable for his actions. Now though, Booth had ventured into her professional sphere and found an ally in her own boss, and, lest anyone forget, his former love interest. It was humiliating to be treated like a child by both her mate and her superior, even more so to see them colluding against her. Apparently, it wasn't enough to just feel the discomforts and limitations inherent in her current condition-it had to be pointed out to her by others in bright, bold letters.

Did he really think she had any intention to go out onto the crime scene, running and waving her hands in the air, drawing attention to herself like a clown in a circus parade without giving safety a second thought? Couldn't he simply trust that she would be able to keep a low profile and wait until the area had been fully secured before venturing out to gather and interpret the evidence?

And what made _her_ so different from all the other countless people who had to show up to do their jobs everyday in fields far more dangerous than hers? People who perhaps had real disabilities to contend with, or children and dependents who needed them to return home because they had no one else to look after them? Well, apparently, the fact that they weren't living with Booth.

She wasn't planning on humveeing her way across Afghanistan or running into a raging high-rise fire to rescue kittens. She would just be one of dozens of security and forensic personnel showing up in the mall's parking lot, long after the assailant had presumably left. Who would stick around after the commission of such a high-profile crime, weapon in hand, with hundreds of police and FBI officers combing the area and helicopters flying overhead? The shooter might be crazy, but he was not an idiot, that much had already been made clear by his almost uncanny ability to evade arrest so far. If only she could get that much credit from Booth.

The risks to her were objectively very small; if he could only take a step back and look at the situation rationally, he would see that. How on earth had she ended up attaching herself to the one person in her life whose brain always seemed to take a back seat to his emotions?

She dressed in a hurry before he had a chance to catch up with her and, shaking her head around vehemently to try to speed up the drying of her hair, walked out the front door and closed it behind her with as solid of a slam as could be managed with superb insulation. It was only 7:30 am, and the battles of the day had just started-she still had to deal with Cam and whatever other obstacles were waiting to pounce on her at the office.

Even with all of that present anger still bubbling over, she knew she loved Booth, but on days like this, when her personal space was in danger of being obliterated, she most definitely didn't like him, and he couldn't make her. And if he wasn't careful, that love of hers might turn into something else rather quickly. Confinement of any kind was not something she dealt with well-boundaries, she needed boundaries, and she needed him to respect that.

She thought of the ring, tucked away into the drawer of her nightstand, and thanked her lucky stars that she hadn't decided to put it on; it would give him the idea that he had rights over her that he didn't, and would never, have. It was a good thing that on the few occasions when she had been tempted to try it on, her common sense had won out over her feelings. Feelings came and went, but common sense was the stalwart rock that you could always rely on to keep you high and dry in a tumultuous sea.

Booth could be so, so…. words failed her as she stomped her way to the car; and the ones that came to mind were highly inappropriate and not fit to be repeated where the neighbors' young children could hear them as they headed out to wait for the school bus, even if she was aching to say them out loud.

The entire thing was deeply troubling, on many levels. It presented a picture of the future that she hadn't given much consideration to before, when the bloom of their budding romance was still on the rose. Would he continue to act this way after the baby arrived? Monitoring and guiding her every move, questioning every choice she made? What if it only got worse, and he insisted that she no longer be involved with anything that might leave their child without a mother? If so, their relationship was heading headfirst into a giant brick wall, if it wasn't well on its way there already.

Her job was important; how could he just dismiss that fact? How many lives would be lost because she wasn't allowed to conduct a thorough examination of the crime scene before it had been trampled on and defaced by all the police officers scouring the area for clues and the amateurish FBI technicians assisting the Jeffersonian's own staff? Cam and Hodgins were good at what they did-excellent, she wouldn't deny that, but she had powers of observation that were unparalleled in her field and that every single one of her colleagues would confirm were not available to anyone else. It wasn't an idle boast; it was the truth, pure and simple.

This person, whoever he was, would kill again and again, and every misstep in their investigation could cost some unsuspecting bystander his or her life, including hers or Booth's. Why couldn't he see that?

She got into the car, trying to concentrate and relax before putting the key in the ignition and taking off, because it wasn't fair for a hapless pedestrian to bear the brunt of her irritation, and all this drama was probably not good for the baby.

When she got started on Booth earlier, she had honestly thought that ranting and raving would make her feel better, that getting it out of her system would garner her a measure of self-possession she had lost somewhere along the way, but the fight with Booth-not an actual fight though, more like shooting fish in a barrel-had instead left her feeling sad and stressed. She really wasn't looking forward to the rest of the day when she would have to deal with Cam, and even more so, to the evening at home when she would be forced to be alone with Booth. But things needed to be dealt with decisively as soon as possible, before Booth's efforts at sabotaging her professional and personal life derailed everything she had worked so hard her whole life for.


	4. Roadkill

Left feeling like a deer in the headlights of a giant oncoming truck, Booth wondered what he could have done or said that might have improved his odds of not getting his head taken off just now. Everyone maintained he was so good at reading people, so good at getting them to do what he wanted during an investigation, how come it never seemed to work on the one person he spent the most time with? The one person with whom his skills really could have come in handy? Savvy or not with people, he certainly didn't see _that_ coming this morning, at least not to the extent that it had.

So he talked to Cam; but that was only after Bones cavalierly dismissed his concerns about this case and his pleas for her to stay away from it as far as she could time and time again. Since when was an expectant father's worry a mortal sin? And his fears weren't just about the baby-if anything happened to her… She could be so inflexible, so headstrong, and he'd already tried talking her out of going with him on every assignment without any measurable results. She might still be mad at him for how he lied earlier in order to try to keep her from flying away like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz during the weather-chasers case, but he felt he'd been in his rights to do what he did back then-look at just how close she had come to getting sucked into a giant, whirling cloud of dust and debris. And he was just as much in his rights to put his foot down now. Because if the perils of going outside during tornado weather were manifold, the dangers inherent in this new situation were ten were times worse as far as he was concerned.

This shooter guy was absolutely crazy as well as unbelievably astute; he set up little commotions that caused minor injuries and then waited for the first responders to show up in order to get the _real_ jollies he was going after. He had managed to shoot 7 people during 3 different incidents, not counting this latest one. Two of those people had died, and two more were clinging to life by a thread. First responders; they were considered first responders along with paramedics, firemen and officers from other units of law enforcement. She was a tempting target, with her pregnant shape and her official looking jumpsuit; if the psycho took a shot, there'd be absolutely nothing he could do to protect her or their baby no matter how closely he was watching over her. So why was it so hard for her to see that?

He knew that being in any relationship was difficult; that it required huge compromises in the best of days, and on the worst…the sky was the limit. But being in a relationship with her? He loved her so much, and she could drive him so crazy…

As he shaved, a little doubt began to rear its ugly head in the back of his mind. What if it really wasn't her that was the problem-what if it was actually him? He'd never been able to successfully pull off living with someone for long. With Rebecca, because she hated his job and found him overbearing-and well-he had other issues going on as well. Tessa and Cam? He never really lived with them, just traded apartments, maybe because neither of them enjoyed the prospect of being that close to him for a prolonged period of time. He had ascribed their skittishness back then to their strong independent streaks-and when didn't he invariably fall for that type of woman, much to his eternal suffering-but maybe there was more to it than that. About Hannah-well, forget Hannah; it was better to leave that one alone. That whole situation had turned out to be a giant mess that in retrospect had been no one's fault but his own.

But now he was getting nervous, because this was it-the real thing. Bones was everything to him. If he ended up pushing her away by forcibly trying to keep her encased in a protective bubble…He wouldn't even go there. It wasn't going to happen. They were simply going to have to work it out, one way or another.

_What if you can't,_ his heart whispered betrayingly; what if it's always going to be this way, a struggle over everything, her safety, and then the baby, their finances, her overseas fieldwork, his insecurities over the permanence of their relationship? He was pretty sure he was in it for the long haul, even if it involved fighting it out every day. But Bones? She'd been on her own for so long and she was so incredibly self-sufficient, he knew, smiling sadly for a moment at the image of her battling armed guerillas with Daisy in tow; what if she didn't need him the way he needed her?

He was used to conflict in relationships-it was all he'd known since he was a boy. And maybe that, right there, was the source of the problem. Because duking it out on a daily basis was no way for a couple to live, even if _he_ was used to it; of that, he was convinced.

So maybe it was him, going at it all wrong because he didn't know any other way.

He didn't want to lose her-couldn't imagine being without her, away from the family he'd only dreamed of being able to have one day.

Maybe it was time to change course; to approach the problem differently, neither going through or around her, but going _with_ her, working with her to reach some sort of compromise that would suit the two of them.

Except that the shooter was still out there, where _she_ wanted to be, and if truth be told, maybe needed to be. And he knew better than anyone that no amount of surveillance or security sweeps could prevent a good sniper from finding a location secret enough to be overlooked by law enforcement agents when they were conducting their search of a crime scene and its surrounding area. He was positive this guy had to have had some sort of military training in his past, and that training must have included stealth and camouflage techniques. The graphic memory of what Broadsky was able to do to Vincent Nigel-Murray from a mind-boggling distance materialized out of nowhere, and he shuddered.

In this conflict between them, what it all boiled down to for him was the potential loss of her life and the baby's pitted against what he could sense was her growing loss of faith in them, her increasing feeling of being caged in against her will, with no other way of fighting back except for the staging of a blitzkrieg attack like this morning's.

He closed his eyes. Was it just him, being unreasonable, or her, being stubborn, or was the problem actually bigger than that? Was it them together, never able to get on the same page at the same time, both unwilling to give even an inch when each of them was convinced that the other was completely in the wrong, unable to stay connected, falling apart little by little? Stumbling and ultimately failing in their attempts at a life together?

Dear God, he hoped not. Life without her; it wasn't a future he would even allow himself to consider. They were just going to have to power through on this one, and maybe he could start by adjusting his attitude bit by bit so that the bad relationship habits he'd been exposed to as a child and perpetuated as an adult could finally be exorcised like bad ghosts haunting an otherwise habitable, lovely home. Adapting his behavior to reflect the realities of this new, most precious of bonds they now shared-their deep love for each other and for their unborn child-even as he tried convincing her that what they had was worth it, was worth sticking around for regardless of the fact that sometimes it was incredibly hard.


	5. Men

Booth and Sweets grimly surveyed the chaotic scene unfolding outside the shopping mall as they got out of the black SUV. Ambulances, a fire truck and at least a dozen squad cars and several forensic vans were jammed inside and around the perimeter of the parking lot where the victims had been shot. Trained snipers were standing guard on the roof of the structure, keeping a watchful eye on nearby buildings.

While one victim who might still have a prayer had already been whisked away to a hospital leaving only spatters of blood behind on the sidewalk as reminders of his recent brush with the afterlife, one who was clearly beyond any hope of revival was sprawled face-up on the ground, his guts spilling from a hole in his stomach. It was a red-headed paramedic in his early fifties, his medical kit still lying on the ground beside him, shot as he was closing the back door of the ambulance after retrieving his supplies to respond to a 911 call.

Hodgins and Cam were already there, crouched low over the body; several other forensic technicians from both the Jeffersonian and the FBI were fanning out around them, methodically taking pictures and poring over the crime scene for clues. Booth threw a worried glance in the group's direction. They were all out in the open, exposed and vulnerable to attack. Despite all of the security personnel present, he instinctively looked around, his hand close to his gun, vigilantly scanning the horizon; using his experience as a former sniper to do what he could so that none of them would end up falling prey to the killer's high-powered rifle, assuming the guy had the mettle to be still milling around after the FBI manhunt for him was clearly well underway.

This case, all of it, was getting on his nerves.

"Got anything yet?" Booth asked Cam impatiently.

"Nope, not without more equipment; we'll gather what we can here and then we'll have the body shipped back to the Jeffersonian. After we get a good handle on the angle of the entry and exit wounds and go over the surveillance tapes, Angela will hopefully be able to come up with a schematic of exactly where the bullet came from."

"I know where it came from" Booth said looking across the street. "That group of buildings over there, the ones that are boarded up on the ground floor-got to be where he shot from. Lots of windows, no one around. Perfect location for someone to lie in wait-he had all the time in the world to set up. We already sent the techs there to look for gun powder residue and anything else that the shooter might have left behind, but it's going to take a while; the place is huge. So any help with actual coordinates would be appreciated."

"I'm sure Dr. Brennan will be fast and thorough, as always. We'll get the information to you as soon as we can."

After the mention of Brennan's name, Booth swayed indecisively near the coroner for a moment, finally deciding to make the leap.

"Hey Cam," he said in a low voice, motioning for her to come over with a slight, and ominous, tilt of the head.

"Yeeess..?" She made her way towards him with a wary expression.

"Did you by any chance run into Bones this morning on your way here?"

"No. We left before she got to the lab. Why, is there a problem?"

"That thing you did for me," he began under his breath, "she sort of figured it out when you called the house earlier."

"Oh, good lord," Cam exclaimed loudly. "I told you Seeley-we shouldn't have done it."

Hodgins had been keeping up the pretense of examining the remains as he surreptitiously eyed the whispering pair, but that last part of the conversation had him staring wide-eyed in their direction, right along with Sweets.

"At the risk of facing the firing squad, just what exactly shouldn't the two of you have been doing? Because really, the possibilities, they're just freaking me out right now."

"Get your mind out of the gutter" Booth growled in exasperation. "And that goes for you too" he commanded sternly, frowning at Sweets.

"What, I didn't say anything."

"But you're thinking it, which is just as bad.

"So what gives? 'Cause it sounds deliciously deceitful," Hodgins pressed with a grin.

Booth ran his hand through his hair and looked up, as if seeking guidance from heaven.

"It's just that I kind of asked Cam to try to keep Bones away from this case because, you know, she's," he made a face as he rounded his hand over his stomach. "You know, she's _pregnant_."

Hodgins laughed incredulously. "The two of you are involved in a conspiracy against Dr. Brennan to keep her from coming out here and working on this case? Love it! Wow, well, it was really nice knowing you both. I really admire your courage, though. Takes guts."

"You probably shouldn't have done that, Booth. You know she was bound to get angry at that kind of intrusion into her professional life, which I assume is exactly what happened" Sweets chimed in.

"You think?" came Booth's sarcastic response. "And don't you all look at me like that. What the hell was I supposed to do? She won't listen to me, this guy is nuts, she can't move as fast as she used to..."

"So how mad is she?" Cam asked, sighing resignedly.

"You might want to take my flak jacket with you when you go back to the lab."

"Lovely. As if one scene of carnage and evisceration wasn't enough for the day. I _cannot_ believe I let you talk me into it, Seeley. I should have my head examined-and not by you" she said, staring at Sweets.

"Why is everyone picking on me today?"

"Listen, I got to run and get a lead on this guy; I just wanted to warn you. And I'm really sorry Cam, I tried talking to her this morning after you called, but she just stormed off. Last time I ask you for a favor, I swear."

"Aha-heard that one before. Go, go already. Men," she muttered, shaking her head as her friend walked away.

"Hey, I'm a man too," Hodgins whined defensively. "That kind of all-inclusive gender-based insult is totally uncalled for. It hurts, it really hurts, I'll have you know."

Cam only shook her head more vigorously, adding an eye-roll to the motion. On some days, she felt like the ring-master of an insane asylum's amateur circus act. Today was one of those days.


	6. The Witness

Booth left the scientists to their work and walked over to the bench outside the hardware store, where a young man still in his bloodied EMT uniform was being attended to by a slightly stocky, bespectacled bystander with a backpack stamped _St. Michael's Medical Center_ at his feet.

"FBI. Is he okay?"Booth asked, pointing to the bench as he flashed his badge. He noticed that despite his relatively young age, the helpful bystander's thinning sandy-colored hair was well on its way to disappearing. Life and bad genes would do that to you, he supposed. The man nodded, and his glasses caught a glint of sunlight that made Booth momentarily shield his eyes.

"This one yeah, he's okay; he didn't get hit, although apparently he was standing right by his partner when the guy took the bullet. I was inside the store picking up some stuff on the way over to work when I heard the commotion outside; people were screaming for help. I'm a resident over at St. Michael's," he said, looking down at his scrubs "so I came out to see if I could be of any help. I couldn't do anything for the other guy, he was already dead, so I came over to check on this one while the emergency units were working on the fireman. He's pretty much in shock-he's looking kind of green. Maybe you want to give him a minute before you talk to him."

"I can't. The shooter's still out there, and we need all the information we can get as soon as possible. Thanks for checking up on him, though," Booth said; "you can leave him with us now. Hey Sweets," he yelled, "get over here; see if you can help me out with this one."

Their witness was still shaking, white as a sheet as they drew closer; Booth figured it wouldn't be a promising conversation, but they had to give it a try. Something, they needed something.

The prodding began, but even after having Sweets' entire arsenal of psychological cajoling mumbo-jumbo thrown at him, the shell-shocked man still couldn't seem to put a coherent sentence together.

"I don't know-I told you," he said through chattering teeth, "we had just shown up. Bill went to the back of the ambulance to get our supplies, and then, wham, it was over. It was so loud. I didn't even know what was happening until I saw Bill on the ground. He wasn't moving. I…I didn't know what to do. I hopped into the back of the ambulance. I should have grabbed him and pulled him in with me. He has a wife and three kids. I just…" The young man started crying and suddenly it felt like they were dealing with a kid, not a full-grown professional.

"Hey listen," Booth said compassionately, gently gripping the frazzled man's shoulder, "it was a tough call, and you did the right thing; he might have been aiming for you next. And your friend, believe me, he probably didn't feel a thing. He was dead before he even hit the ground. There's nothing you could have done, before or after. Just try to pull yourself together and give the other investigators here your full statement in a couple of minutes, then go home and take it easy. You hear me?"

"Yeah, I'll try my best" the man responded, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

Booth turned to leave when Sweets broke in. "And you really have no idea what direction the bullet came from? You didn't see anything suspicious as you were pulling up? Nothing? How's that possible?" Sweets' tone was harsher, more urgent than it had been before when he was trying to get the guy to talk to them, and it took Booth by surprise.

The witness looked like he was ready to start crying again, and Booth grabbed Sweets' arm, steering him away from the bench and its pitiful occupant.

"Forget it," he told his partner firmly. "We're not getting anything out of this one; maybe later, when he calms down, but not now. We'll just have to check around to see if anyone else saw something; if not, we'll have to wait for the squints and Cam to calculate the trajectory and the distance of the bullet so we can narrow down our search of that warehouse across the street. I've seen the look on that paramedic's face lots of times before; he's not here right now talking to us-he's still in the middle of that horror show, watching his partner getting shot over and over again, punishing himself for not being able to do more. Pushing him isn't going to get us anywhere-we're just wasting our time."

"I suppose you're right" Sweets replied with a regretful nod. "I guess I'm just really disturbed by this case; everything's so random, and he could be anywhere. Gosh" he said, looking behind him, "that poor guy was _really_ freaked out. Too bad he couldn't give us anything new, because we could really use the help."

Sweets stared at the ground and then looked at Booth inquiringly. "Is that what _I _was like after what happened to Heather Taffet? All loopy and out of it? You know, I would have hoped that my training would have prepared me for the shock of seeing her blown away, but I probably wasn't any more helpful than this guy, was I?"

"People can't help it, Sweets. Even when you've seen it before, nothing can prepare you for that kind of thing. _Nothing_, believe me. It's the same disabling punch to the nervous system every single time. The only thing training and experience can do for you is to get you to unfreeze and regroup a little faster after the fact, that's all."

As they were talking, their witness's previous helper came up to them, studying Booth with pale blue eyes that twitched anxiously behind the thick, metal-framed glasses. "You think it's the same guy as before, in front of the movie theater? I was off duty that night, but they called a bunch of us into the hospital to help with all the injuries. There was such a massive stampede in and out of that theatre, it's a miracle no one was trampled to death in the process. That was _really_ awful-that poor cop, they brought her in too, but she was already dead. What a shame-so young. And I heard she was pregnant" the man added, shaking his head sympathetically. "Just...freaky."

Sweets saw Booth's jaw clamp down, and he gave his friend a sidelong look, which the older agent resolutely ignored.

"Yeah-I know" Booth stated somberly; "I was there. And it may or may not be the same guy. That's what we're trying to determine. Look, if you remember anything else, you call the FBI, ok?" He handed the man his card.

"Sure thing; will do. Hope you catch whoever it is soon, though-it's going to give us all the willies whenever we have to go out in the open to lend a hand. I know it's our job, but it's still going to be creepy."

Soon. Booth could only pray that this would be the case.


	7. Alone in the ER

_For Rangers (guest), added a little extra Hodgins at the end._

The two agents interviewed several more people, but as with all prior incidents, got very little information they could actually do much with.

So far, the facts were pretty straightforward. A small fire had spontaneously erupted in a trash can very close to where the gas grill propane tanks were being stored outside the strip mall hardware store, and a woman walking by at that exact time ended up receiving some minor burns to her arm as a result. Someone called 911, a security guard ran out and began dousing the flames with a fire extinguisher, and soon thereafter an ambulance had pulled up to the store along with a fire truck. It was as the older paramedic was getting his kit out of the back of the ambulance that the first bullet struck. A second one followed almost immediately, hitting a firefighter inspecting the smoldering remains of the fire.

The first a perfect, deadly shot which caused a small riot as people on the way out to their cars scrambled madly back into the safety of the store for cover; the second, slightly less perfect because the target had apparently been startled on hearing the first blast and moved, but still too damn accurate for anyone's taste. Maybe deadly as well. The emergency personnel had informed Booth that it was too early to call it, and apparently would remain that way for a couple of days.

After a brief search, a small incendiary device was found inside the burned-out trash can, attached to a long-range detonator. The conflagration had clearly been a ruse, a small distraction to lure first responders to the scene.

The whole thing was very reminiscent of the movie theater incident which the medical intern had referenced earlier. There, another small bomb had been placed near a smoke detector, and when the fire alarm went off along with the sprinklers, people began pouring out of the theater in droves. The exodus was apparently proceeding in a relatively orderly manner until a passing squad car stopped by to lend a hand.

It was then that a young police lieutenant, Gina Morracone, emerging from the passenger side of the vehicle, fell victim to the killer's deadly spree. Just like at the mall; her life taken almost instantly and without warning. Her partner was shot within seconds as he tried pulling her to safety, and that officer was still touch and go over at the county hospital's trauma unit where he'd been transferred after his initial stint at St. Michael's.

After that, all hell really broke loose. The moviegoers went crazy, running everywhere and all over each other, too afraid to go back into a building they thought might be burning down but terrified of being out on the street. Like the intern pointed out, the stampede had been bad, leaving dozens of people injured, but it actually could have been much worse.

Booth had pulled up to scene with Sweets within minutes of the incident, but almost immediately left Sweets behind to work the case upon hearing about the injured officer. He sped over to the hospital by himself in an effort to try to get something out of the surviving victim before he was taken into surgery, not realizing at the time just how grave the officer's condition was. The man was in no shape to talk to him, and never might be.

It was there in the emergency room that he accidentally saw Gina Morracone's body, still lying on a gurney in one of the triage bays, the curtains that usually provided some privacy to the patients and their emergency caregivers not quite drawn around it all the way, probably because privacy was no longer of any concern. She was long dead, her body left unattended and uncovered in the room as the triage teams tried to deal with the massive influx of injuries currently deluging the hospital.

Almost against his will he moved in for a closer look, even knowing the terrible thing he would find. Mid twenties, probably not out of the academy for too long, pretty; her long dark hair framing her fine, pale features, now devoid of any expression. He was told by the hospital staff that she had been pregnant, around five months along. He forced himself to look lower, to where her abdomen had been hastily slashed open in an attempt to save her unborn child. There was blood everywhere, and for a minute he thought he was going to be sick. Dizzy, he closed his eyes against the gore, fighting waves of nausea.

She'd been shot in the back, up by her lungs, but it was explained to him that the developing fetus wasn't far enough along and that with the trauma its mother had sustained, there was nothing they could ultimately do to save its life over at the neonatal intensive care unit, no matter how hard and long the specialists and nurses had worked in spite of the odds. "Extraordinary measures," they had called it.

The baby had been a girl.

A haunted Booth practically fled the hospital soon after encountering that bone-chilling vision, not wanting to be there when the woman's grieving husband showed up to identify her body, as he knew he would have to. It was just too awful to think about it, to try to put himself in that poor guy's place, to hear him questioning in anguished tones why his family had been ripped away from him for no reason. To watch him seeing the beautiful, lively woman he loved look that way.

With the wail of a departing ambulance his mind abruptly came back to the present, to the strip mall parking lot where he and Sweets were standing and to the paltry amount of information they had collected so far today. Aside from the sketchy facts at their disposal, essentially nothing. No one had seen anything strange, the surveillance tapes so far showed no unusual activity, and unfortunately, the security cameras didn't even cover the area where the garbage can was at. Of course, the killer knew that, and that's without a doubt why he had picked that particular receptacle to place his bomb.

Their only chance at a lucky break hinged on the possibility that the store's older recordings might reveal someone covertly scouting the location prior to the set-up, but from past experience, Booth knew that someone as careful as the sniper seemed to be would try to make himself as inconspicuous as possible on video, most likely keeping his face and any identifying traits well away from any cameras. Still, Angela had done miraculous things with less using her magic tools, so he still held out some hope on that front.

He looked once again across the street, to where the sniper had most likely been lying in wait for who knew how long before he decided to strike. Did he always go for it, or did he sometimes leave without ever having pulled the trigger? They knew so little about him at this point; he'd have to go over the man's psychological profile in more depth with Sweets to get a better understanding of the type of person they were dealing with so they could try to narrow down the scope of their investigation.

But for now, the enormous group of connected buildings facing the strip mall would have to be searched inch by inch, and it would take time. Booth was sure their man was long gone, though, in all likelihood leaving little or nothing behind for them to work with. And in remaining free, it was almost guaranteed that someone else would meet their maker at his hands before the week came to an end.

"Hey man;" his bleak thoughts were interrupted by Hodgins' concerned voice. "I was kind of making fun of you guys back there, but I wanted you to know that I can really relate to what you're going through. I don't know what I would have done if it had been Angela insisting on crawling around on that parking lot pavement when she was pregnant. I was terrified enough for her after what happened to Vincent, with Broadsky still out there and all. And this guy seems like even more of a loose cannon than Broadsky, if that's possible."

He patted Booth on the back, in an act of solidarity and friendship.

"A relationship and a baby sure complicate things," he added pensively. "Don't they?"

"Yeah, they do Hodgins," Booth replied. "I wish they didn't, but they do."


	8. Betrayal at Work

_I hate putting disclaimers in my stories, but I know that a few readers object whenever I write scenes in which Brennan gets angry. All I can say is that what she's going through in this chapter is part of her journey of self-discovery, and that if you can be patient, all will (hopefully) come together at the end. Plus, I always do try to write her from a sympathetic point of view, not just make her into a villain, and I believe that she had some good reasons for feeling the way she does here._

_And to one of my kind reviewers, rest assured, no babies (other than the one I've already written about) were harmed in the making of this ff! So without much more ado…_

As much as Camille Saroyan tried tiptoeing through the Jeffersonian's halls in an effort to get to her office and catch her breath without running into Dr. Brennan first, it didn't work. Because the forensic anthropologist was already waiting for her there, sitting ramrod straight on her couch, her face fully belying the fact that she wasn't a happy camper.

Cam's shoulders drooped at the sight, and she reluctantly accepted that the inevitable skirmish would be starting sooner than she anticipated; hopefully, it wouldn't leave either her or Dr. Brennan too bloodied, or escalate into something that made their always tentative relationship end up looking like bits of shredded mulch.

She walked in slowly, holding her hands up to show she wasn't armed.

"I know, Dr. Brennan; I know-Booth told me you found out about his lunatic plan, which I fully acknowledged I probably shouldn't have taken any part in. It's just that he begged, and he made a face and frankly, I let myself feel sorry for him, although I now wish I hadn't because I really don't want get lectured and scolded over it, even when it's deserved. So I'm sorry."

Brennan stood up, unmoved by what she felt was less than a credible apology.

"Please don't try to mollify me, Dr. Saroyan; I won't have my expressions of displeasure preempted by Booth's announcement to you of what happened at our house this morning" she began angrily. "I want you to know that I'm very upset with you, perhaps even more than I am with Booth, and I feel I'm well within my rights to express that anger. I'll remind you that you're my colleague, not my mother. I realize that you're my superior at the Jeffersonian by virtue of your job description and title, but I always assumed that you felt we were equals in terms of skills and expertise, and that you could trust my decision-making abilities, at least when it came to work. I can see now that this apparently isn't the case."

"By all means, please go ahead and vent" Cam said in a conciliatory tone; "don't let me stop you. You've more than earned that right. It's not like I got into this unawares of where I would end up. And yes, Dr. Brennan, of course I consider you my equal professionally, and I trust your ability to do the right, intelligent thing on almost every occasion. Lord knows there are few people whose judgment and level-headedness I respect more, especially under pressure, both on and off the field."

"So why this? Why go around my back and give in to Booth's patently illogical arguments? You know as well as I do that the suspect has never remained at the scene of a crime beyond the initial disturbance. Why would he? His behavior so far shows him to be an extremely cautious individual; why else wouldn't he have been apprehended yet? His targets have always been first responders, and no matter what Booth thinks or how many times he says it, we at the Jeffersonian are scientists, not first responders. I had as good a chance of getting killed by the sniper while collecting evidence this morning as I did stepping off the curb and getting run over by a taxi when I went out for lunch. Surely you must see that."

"Dr. Brennan…"

"I realize that you consider yourself first and foremost Booth's friend," she continued with a touch of bitterness; "that's pretty obvious at this point. And maybe because of your previous romantic involvement, you feel that your loyalty towards him should trump your loyalty to me, your associate, no matter how unfair that may be. But I want you to be aware of the fact that this is not a situation I'm willing to tolerate. I have to be allowed to exercise my own judgment when it comes to carrying out my professional duties. And if you won't, or can't allow it, then I'll be forced to go over your head and talk to someone else, someone whose views haven't been tainted by the opinions of my partner, and your friend."

Angela had been about to step into Cam's office with information about the killer's probable vantage point at the warehouse, when the loud argument going on between the two women stopped her in her tracks.

"Whoa" she uttered in bewilderment. "Okay, I don't know what's going on, but I'm backing away now, just in case the shrapnel gets me. We can do this later, Cam. I'll come back in a little bit."

Whatever was going on in there was something Angela wasn't going to meddle with in any way, shape or form. She quickened her step, and left the quarrel behind her as fast as she could, not even wanting to hear any of the details in case she had the misfortune of being called back in to referee.

Although initially stung by Dr. Brennan's words, Cam ultimately made the determination that the comments about Booth really held no malice, and she opted to ignore them; she decided that they were most likely just a symptom of how stressed and hurt her colleague was, and that they were her way of lashing out at the person whom she perceived had just stripped away a large chunk of her dignity and self-image.

"Okay, I don't deny that Booth is one of my oldest, dearest friends, and that I may have let that friendship-and absolutely _nothing_ else-with him get in the way of my duties and responsibilities towards you as a boss, but you have to realize that I know what you and this baby mean to Booth. I have never, and I mean _never_, seen him this happy-and terrified-at the same time. For the most part, I concur with you on the minimal risk that the killer poses to our staff, and logically, I shouldn't have taken into account Booth's request to keep you off the field. But I want you to know that while Booth is my friend, I also consider _you_ to be a friend, a good friend, and as such I can't help it if sometimes I do let my feelings about your condition dictate where I send you. Am I presuming too much by hoping that you see me as a friend as well?"

"You know I do" Brennan admitted unwillingly, the spark suddenly going out of her anger. "I know we've had our differences in the past, but I thought we had worked through all that, which is why I was caught completely off guard by your decision to give in to Booth's ridiculous demands this morning."

"If I were no more than an impartial, by-the-book employer, it would make perfect sense for me to send you out there without a lick of guilt, with the rest of the staff; but as a woman who unexpectedly now has a daughter of her own and as a friend, I feel I'm within my rights to at least ask you to think about the dangers inherent in going to an open crime scene that may not be fully secured or securable."

"I thought we both agreed that my odds of getting killed were not particularly high today."

"But what if next time the killer decides to hold his ground and pulls the trigger again, or sets off another explosive device. Even if he doesn't aim for you, it could cause another scramble for safety by everyone around you that could end up injuring you and the baby just as much as a bullet. You're not as mobile as you used to be, or as agile as you were before you became pregnant; you have to know that. And the honest truth is that I'm not sure I'm willing to live with the consequences should something like that happen, and I'm certain neither is Booth.

Dr. Brennan's shoulders slumped dejectedly, and she looked away, as close to tears as Cam had ever seen her.

"So that's it; I have no recourse then" she said haltingly. As she spoke, Cam saw something else in the doctor's eyes, more than just a loss of pride and a relentless need for independence-it was fear.

"And what about Booth" Brennan asked in a broken voice. "What if something happens to him while he's out there without me? Everyone is so worried about me, what about him? _He_ is a first responder; he's a law enforcement officer, the same type of target the shooter is going after. You may not realize it, but when we're in the field together, I look after him as much as he looks after me. Yes, he's saved my life before, but I've saved his as well; what if I'm not there and something happens? How can _I_ live with that?"

The argument surprised Cam; it had never occurred to her that this might be part of the reason that Dr. Brennan was so vehemently opposed to being left behind at the Jeffersonian. It wasn't an admission she expected the scientist to ever make, or to even let herself acknowledge, because it spoke more to heart and raw emotion than anything else, but Cam could now plainly see just how much had changed in her friend since the early years of their collaboration. Dr. Brennan could say all she wanted about being able to think rationally no matter what she was faced with, but what Cam was seeing in her now was a total loss of perspective brought on by love, pure and simple. That, and perhaps a feeling that things were spiraling out of control as a due date and the killer's hunger progressed. Ironically, the exact same things that Booth was probably feeling these days.

"Dr. Brennan, Temperance," Cam replied soothingly as she placed a reassuring hand on her friend's arm. "That's his job, and he's good at it-incredibly good. You know Booth doesn't take unnecessary risks, and he's aware of his surroundings like no one else I know-it's like a sixth sense with him. But what you have to realize is that if he's worrying about you on top of everything else that's going on out there, it makes his job that much harder and it could even end up dangerously diluting his focus. I promise you, though, that from now on I will make every effort to consult with you-not Booth-about whether or not you get to go on a specific job assignment. If you assure me that after calmly and objectively looking at the situation you still feel comfortable going to a crime scene, I swear I will not let my personal feelings or Booth's puppy dog eyes keep me from sending you there. No more backroom deals, you have my word; is that something you think you can work with?"

"Yes, I suppose I can work with that."

"But I also ask you to please take Booth's affection for you and my own concerns about your condition into account when you're weighing your options. Because if something does end up happening, we're the ones who are going to have to live with that burden for the rest of our lives. I care about you, Dr. Brennan, I really do-and this isn't just about Booth. So can you do that for _me_?" Cam pleaded. "Deal?"

Brennan looked around thoughtfully, perhaps on the brink of agreeing to Cam's request.

"Deal," she finally replied. She walked silently out the office, but abruptly turned around to look at Cam once again.

"I'm sorry that I behaved so harshly towards you just now. I want you to know that ultimately I do appreciate that you had what you felt were my best interests in mind when you kept me from going with you this morning, even if I disagree with your methods. I guess it's just hard accepting that so many things lately are no longer mine alone to deal with as I see fit. I hope you will accept my apology for yelling at you just now-and for some of the other things I brought up," she said sheepishly. "I really do consider you a friend, Cam."

"Of course. And I understand, more than you think. Ever since Michelle and I became a family, I've had to make adjustments to my life that I never thought I would be capable or willing to make for anyone. And I want to assure you that when things get back to normal after the baby is born, we'll go back to our old way of doing business, Booth or no Booth."

Brennan finally allowed herself to smile a little. "Thank you. I suppose I can't entirely blame you for having capitulated to Booth earlier; I know how convincing he can be when he puts his mind to it. He does have 'puppy dog eyes' as you call them, at least when he really wants to get you to do something for him."

"That he does-and from now on they'll be entirely yours to deal with any way you choose, I promise. No more being suckered into insane shenanigans behind your back. I may like the occasional big-stakes poker game, but even I'm not that big of a risk-taker."


	9. Of Boys and Guns

"So what about the killer, what's the profile on this one?" Booth asked, as he slowly navigated the SUV out of the strip mall's crowded parking lot, now completely overrun by investigators.

Sweets shook his head. "Caucasian, male, thirties, typical profile of a sniper who's clearly had the time and the resources to perfect his trade. As you mentioned, probably has also had extensive military training, evidenced by his choice of weapon and his level of marksmanship. Some of the behavioral traits are obvious, given the nature of the crimes. Methodical, patient, most likely not a professional. I'm convinced though that he's regularly employed, what with his perfectionism and his ability to stick with a plan, probably at a place that offers some flexibility with regards to hours. His job could potentially even serve as a cover, so he could very well be committing some of his crimes while on the clock, which may indicate that what he does for a living involves traveling around the city in some form. This would definitely allow him to be away from the workplace for extended periods of time without incurring the suspicion of his supervisors."

"That's it? That doesn't narrow down the suspect list down too much."

"Unfortunately, I don't have anything terribly identifying so far, in part because there's so little physical evidence to work with. I can tell you he's very smart-and also highly dangerous, volatile, paranoid, but not a dissociative personality like a schizophrenic-too much careful planning for that. These types of killers often feel a sense of disconnect with the world that leads them to perceive themselves as self-contained entities, separate from the people around them, different, special."

"Why not a night job-he'd be free during the day which is when he always strikes."

"In my opinion, that kind of schedule would make him much less efficient while on the prowl. He'd be more prone to making mistakes before or after an attack; and so far, he hasn't made any, at least that we can find."

"There'll be one" Booth said in a determined tone. "There always is."

"My guess is he's not living with someone, because between the explosives and the guns, it would be hard to keep this type of suspicious activity hidden from anyone who's that close to you, and besides, these guys generally tend to be loners-it's both a symptom and a source of their problem. Could be living with an elderly parent who can be easily manipulated, though. Oh, and his consistent choice of victim seems to indicate that he feels he's on some sort of mission."

Taking a deep breath, Booth turned to his partner, an unwelcome name on his lips. "Like Jacob Broadsky?" he asked.

"No, not quite like that. I don't believe this guy thinks he's doing the world a favor by killing people; more like he's got a beef against certain authority figures, particularly those trying to inject order into an emergency situation. It's quite clear it's not the general population he's after; his anger seems to be specifically directed towards first responders, as we've already seen. And I get the definite impression that he enjoys manipulating the mass hysteria that invariably follows one of his killings, which is why he creates a small commotion in a public space first to attract a crowd before going on to do more serious damage. Maybe he had an abusive parental figure that was in that type of profession, and he wants to symbolically get back at them-this type of motivation is very common in these cases."

"Or maybe," Booth added defensively, "he lost a loved one and he blames cops and paramedics for not doing more. Or he was turned away from joining the Fire Department. Or his neighbor cop shot his dog. There's plenty of scenarios to pick from, not just the mean parent angle."

"Of course, Agent Booth. I didn't mean to unduly limit our potential suspect pool" Sweets added diplomatically, realizing he had just hit one of his partner's many sore spots. "What we have to keep in mind with these types of serial killers is that they often like inserting themselves into the investigation process at some point. We should be looking at footage from the crime scenes taken after the police arrived in force to see if anyone was milling around who shouldn't have been."

"The FBI is doing that right now. This guy's patience and his aim kind of set him apart from the typical wacko, though-I just found out before we got back in the car that the firefighter he hit died in surgery. It really worries me; there's not much room there for survivors if he strikes again, which he will unless he's caught soon. Three kids that guy had, and another on the way," Booth said quietly.

"Our suspect _is_ pretty deadly" Sweets agreed. "Oh, and along those lines, I have a little bit of information that might make you feel _some_ relief as we pursue this case" he said smiling.

"Yes?"

"You'll be happy to know that my marksmanship has really improved. I can actually hit stuff pretty consistently now, most of the time; right on the money in fact. I attribute it in part to my superb video gaming skills. Who could have thought they would come in so handy in the real world?" He rubbed his hands together, openly relishing his new-found hobby. "Sometimes I still can't believe I get to carry a gun at work-how cool is that?…I got to tell you," he added under his breath, "Daisy thinks that me armed is the biggest turn-on ever. You can't imagine what it's done for me in the bedroom…"

"Okay, I think I've heard enough about that already" Booth interrupted with barely contained exasperation. "And guns don't belong in the bedroom, Sweets; I hope you're intelligent enough to realize that. Never a good idea."

"So you and Dr. Brennan have never role played using…"

"Nope" Booth answered curtly; "and if you value yours and Daisy's body parts, neither should you."

"But I empty…"

"Nope-don't want to hear it."

"What about the handcuffs; surely you guys take those out once in a while? People are really into that sort of thing these days- the girls seem to love it ever since 50 Shades of Gray came out."

"Stop; just stop-stay out of my bedroom" Booth fumed, but an embarrassed flush on his cheeks betrayed to Sweets that maybe the handcuffs weren't exactly off-limits in the Booth-Brennan household. He was about to make a comment about it, when he noticed that his partner's features had darkened, taking on a severe cast.

"Just realize that carrying a gun has nothing to do with being cool," Booth stated forcefully. "When the FBI let you carry that weapon, it was with the understanding that you'd be willing to use it. I'm telling you now that you can't entirely control the kind of damage a bullet does, no matter how good you think you are; there's always the possibility that you could kill someone when you pull the trigger. You get that, right?"

Sweets looked away, suddenly subdued, his eyes filling with momentary uncertainty. "Yeah, I mean, in theory, of course I know that's a possibility. Although I'm kind of ashamed to admit that working with you, I figured I wouldn't have to use my gun much. I guess I haven't really given it that much thought."

"Well, with that guy out there, now's about the right time to seriously start looking into that."

"I thought as your partner, I'd be more like Dr. Brennan; after all, she's been going on assignments with you for a long time and she hasn't always carried a weapon; hasn't been carrying one, in fact, for a while."

"Yes, but when I'm with her I _know_ that, and I compensate for it whenever something comes up-don't you dare go around telling her that, though; that's all I need right now. And besides, she's pretty damn good at self-defense-she's hardly a wallflower."

"Hey, I'm no wallflower either," Sweets retorted with a pout.

Looking somber, Booth turned to his friend. "Now that you're carrying a gun Sweets, I _need_ to know that you'll be willing and able to use it, and that you'll back me up if it comes down to it. If you don't think you're capable of taking that shot, then just stay behind me and don't become a liability for me."

"You think I'll really be able to pull the trigger if I have to?" Sweets asked, as a hint of self-doubt began to creep into his earlier self-confidence. "I did it at the firing range no problem, but for real? Do people freeze sometimes?"

"Usually when your life or someone else's is on the line instinct and training take over, and most people do what they have to do to stay alive" Booth replied. "But if you tell me that you think I might not be able to depend on you for any reason, I want you to know that that's ok; I'll adjust for it. This wasn't your first career choice, I know that. Just go ahead and tell me now, and don't let me find out the hard way-I won't hold it against you, I promise. If we agree that you think a gun's just a bedroom accessory, I'll act accordingly and do what needs to be done on my own."

The two men drove in silence for a minute.

Swallowing nervously, Sweets glanced at his partner, who was still waiting for an answer. "No, no Booth-you don't have to worry about me" he said resolutely, after taking a good hard look at himself. "You can totally count on me, I promise; I won't let you down. I'm _positive_ I can shoot if I have to. I'd just like to know-nah, forget it."

"What Sweets?" The car stopped at a red light, and Booth looked over impatiently. "Go ahead, what is it?"

"I'm just curious. What happens after, after you fire? What goes through your mind? I'd like to be prepared, I guess. If I do end up killing someone...I mean-what's it like, later?"

The light changed, and the car began to move. Booth's eyes went back to the road ahead, but his mind was somewhere else.

"Not good," he answered simply. "Ever. Not even when it was deserved, or when it was the only logical thing you could have done. I guess at first there's the rush of relief from knowing that it isn't you on the floor. But later, when it's quiet, you start to second-guess yourself. Was the danger really that imminent? Could you have done things a different way? Aimed better? Even when you're sure you couldn't have, it snowballs; you start thinking about other things, like the victim. Did he have any redeeming qualities you didn't even know about, reasons for being the way he was? Then you move on to his family, the people who cared about him. How are they handling it? It _was_ a life that probably meant something to someone, even if it may not have been a very good one. And it just keeps going until at some point it fades away into some part of your mind you don't let yourself look into very often."

This was clearly not a foreign topic to Booth no matter how rarely it had been discussed, and Sweets started feeling guilty about having brought it up. Still, forewarned was forearmed, and it was better to be aware of the realities of his new job than not, he decided.

"At the risk of being too nosy," Sweets began, missing the fact that Booth had just rolled his eyes because, when _wasn't_ Sweets nosy when it came to other people's personal business, "then why do you and other people like you do this voluntarily, day after day, when you have an intimate knowledge of how terrible it is, and you're aware that you may very well have to do it again in the future? It's obvious to anyone who knows you that you don't enjoy that part of your job-you hate it, in fact. I have to confess that while I have a rational understanding of the reasons that regularly lead people to choose these kinds of careers, I don't really have an emotional handle on it, even when I'm now opting to go there myself now."

_Why indeed? _Booth thought._ Why put yourself out there, risk killing or being killed, already knowing what it's like? Knowing how awful it feels to be so close to death, as both triggerman and potential victim? _He readily admitted that Sweets really did possess the most uncanny ability to pick at the wounds buried the deepest, and the ones least likely to ever heal. He would make a truly great agent one day, their baby duck, if he could just mature a little and not get sidetracked by the little things, like giggling girls and the latest video games.


	10. Invervention Numero Uno: Sweets

Booth laughed humorlessly at the unlikely turn the conversation had taken, considering they had been talking about bedroom fetishes just a few minutes ago. Sweets' question was one he had asked himself many times, and one for which the answer kept changing depending on the day, or even the time of day. He took a moment to try to put his thousands of reasons for doing what he did into just a few words because, while he usually spurned Sweets' advances when it came to messing with his head, he felt that this time his partner's poking wasn't being done in the name of science, but for his own peace of mind.

"No, Sweets, I don't like that part of my job. But someone's always going to have to do it, because there are plenty of bad people out there and a lot of innocent people who might pay the price if someone doesn't step up to the plate when it's needed. It might as well be me. If _I_ take the shot, then it means someone else won't have to, that someone else won't be living with that hanging over his or her head for the rest of their lives. It's way too late for me not to know what killing feels like, but maybe I can keep someone else from going there."

"Wow, that is incredibly noble and heroic, and yet _so_ totally twisted." Sweets said in shock. "You've practically turned yourself into a human scapegoat, a sacrificial victim at the altar of justice. I think you might really need to look into that one of these days."

Booth ground his teeth together in exasperation, scolding himself for having been duped into being so open with a guy who would always be first and foremost a shrink, about what was a deeply conflicting subject for him; one that he would normally avoid like the plague. He had foolishly tried to play nice, only to come out feeling as if he'd just been vivisected like a frog in a high school science class.

"This isn't open hunting season on my psyche, Sweets" he answered resentfully, "and I don't consider myself a victim, or a scapegoat, or a hero, or anything else-just another law enforcement officer doing his job, trying to keep people safe, like thousands of others out there. I told you all this as your friend, not as a patient, just to help _you_ out if, god forbid, you should end up walking where I've been. No psychoanalyzing, okay? I've managed just fine so far."

Sweets spread his fingers in front of him as a sign that he was backing off. "I promise-no more probing. And I want you to know I really do appreciate your honesty-I didn't mean to judge you, Booth." Still, he couldn't get over the very private nature of the thoughts he had just heard his partner voice.

"It's so weird, though…this conversation. I mean, I've known you for a long time, and in just a few days of riding around with you in the car I find out more about you than I did all that time during our sessions in my office. No wonder you and Dr. Brennan got to be so close."

"Well, don't expect _that_ level of closeness with me ever, Sweets. Everyone can't be Bones-besides, you're not nearly as pretty" Booth said, grinning mischievously. Sweets almost choked when he realized the implication of his partner's comment.

"No, what?-of course not; no way," he sputtered in embarrassment as Booth laughed.

"Speaking of Dr. Brennan, though" Sweets began innocently, "how is she?"

"She's back at the lab, and she's not too happy about that, but you already know that, don't you? And I don't really want to discuss that either."

"I gathered as much from what I heard between you and Dr. Saroyan this morning" Sweets continued, unfazed by the warning.

Booth honked his horn at a slow-moving car in front of them, and Sweets dug his fingers a little deeper into his seat. The frustration level in Booth regarding Dr. Brennan's involvement with this case was palpable-and a little scary given how he was currently driving. It really was probably for the best to get this thing out in the open once and for all, before they accidentally ended up in someone's back seat.

"You know, she's just being unreasonable" Booth said to no one in particular. "I don't care how smart she is, she can't outrun a sniper. Why is it so hard for her to accept the fact that she's pregnant? Sometimes I think she does it purely to torture me."

Despite all the talk about not wanting to discuss his problems with Dr. Brennan, Booth obviously wanted to discuss them, so Sweets decided to keep going with that, albeit with some trepidation.

"I didn't quite hear about everything that went on this morning, but it's fairly obvious you had something to do with Dr. Brennan staying at the lab today."

"So maybe I overstepped my boundaries a little, but she won't listen to me" Booth complained, hitting his hand angrily against the dashboard. He lowered his voice. "I talked to Cam-I asked her, actually I begged her, to keep Bones in the lab more, especially with this loser hanging around crime scenes and bumping off emergency personnel. There's a limit to what I can do to protect her."

"And I discern from your expression that Dr. Brennan didn't agree with your views on that matter. She wasn't being too cooperative, I assume."

"Hah," came the sarcastic reply. "Downright hostile is more like it. I found my time in Iraq to be a piece of cake compared with the stuff I had to put up with this morning. Here's a freak bumping people off left and right, and somehow I wind up as the bad guy? How does _that_ happen? Can you answer that for me?"

"Why did you feel the need to keep her out of the decision making process?"

"Did you not just hear what I said? She won't listen to me-you saw what happened when we went after the tornado chasers. You think my asking her to keep her distance from one of these crime scenes was going to register?"

"Look, I understand your point, and I want you to know that I empathize."

"Do you, Sweets? Do you really? Can you imagine getting Daisy pregnant and then sending her out to a place where you know she and your baby could end up getting killed? You've been there? Really?"

Sweets made a determined effort to not get sidetracked by Booth's misplaced fury.

"First of all, you both got her pregnant, since I presume she was a willing participant during the event; it wasn't a unilateral act, from what I understand. Second, you're not sending her anywhere; it's her job as a Jeffersonian research staff member to go out into the field to examine and retrieve evidence as soon as remains are discovered in order to protect the integrity of the finds."

"And what difference does any of that make? She's still out there, still vulnerable and pregnant, and still exposed."

"And you truly believe that going behind her back is the right approach in this situation?"

Right after he asked the question, Sweets became aware of a sudden ambivalence in his mentor, as Booth's expression changed from one of irritation to one of defeat.

"No, not really" Booth answered softly. "But I don't know how else to react. I can see that she's unhappy, I can see how it's starting to drive her away from me, from us, and I still can't change a thing about what I'm doing. I don't know how else to be, even though I know where it's heading-where it always heads with me."

There was a melancholic strain in Booth's voice that triggered a huge amount of brotherly affection in Sweets for his partner, a man who was always struggling to do the right thing, even when he couldn't always figure out the right way to do it.

"When this case started" Booth continued quietly, "she came along with me like always, and it wasn't a big deal. I mean, she didn't even look or act pregnant; it was the same old Bones, quick, sure-footed, razor-sharp skills. We also didn't know anything about the killer or his victim preferences back then. But now we do, and he's gotten bolder just as she's gotten bigger. After that officer got shot outside the movie theater, I don't know, something inside of me just snapped, and all I can think about now is the possibility that Bones will end up in the morgue of some hospital, with a hole right through her. I don't want to lose her that way, but I know I may end up losing her anyway if I keep on doing what I'm doing. So there you have it. Shrink away all you want, Dr. Phil."

"Listen, at least you have a grip on the extent of her vexation and on the damage that your actions are having on your relationship, and that's definitely a start" Sweets replied encouragingly. "I think you owe it to your new life together as a couple to find some common ground here. Dr. Brennan has never taken well to being boxed in or manipulated. Look at it from her point of view; let's say you were injured on the job and when you came back to work you weren't 100 percent. How would you feel if you found out Dr. Brennan had called your boss and gotten you assigned to desk duty while she went on her merry way to investigate a case without you? You'd probably be mad as hell, and rightfully so. Ultimately" Sweets said, shrugging his shoulders, "Dr. Brennan will end up doing whatever she wants, with or without your consent, and this might actually put her at greater risk than if you did nothing to stop her from doing it. The bottom line is that you can't take that kind of control away from a person, even for what you perceive to be their benefit, without destroying their trust in you."

"I'm pretty sure we're already there," Booth stated bleakly. All he had to do was to go back to their morning to see it.

"I believe there's still time to undo the damage, Booth."

"How, by letting her have her way while I secretly have a coronary every single time she's out in the field? How's that going to work for our relationship? When I end up saying or doing something she won't be able to forgive me for?"

"Booth, I consider myself to be yours and Dr. Brennan's friend; I care about you both and I really wish I had some magical way of resolving this problem between you, but as a friend and even as a therapist, I can only take this so far. I think you already have a pretty good handle on what needs to be done to fix things. Talk to her, not at her. Yes, Dr. Brennan can be intractable when she wants to be" Sweets said, rolling his eyes and smiling, "but she's also eminently practical and rational, as long as you're willing to take the time to appeal to her logic. But that also means you're going to have to give up some control in the process, even if you don't like it. If you're certain that the situation warrants it, by all means, try to talk her out of going. But if it's you being excessively over-protective, then maybe you should put your fears into a box and lock them up, and let her go with you."

It was then that Booth heard Sweets say something that shook him unexpectedly, because it was something he had already witnessed first-hand as a child and been burned by repeatedly.

"In my experience, this type of controlling attitude you're exhibiting can escalate and morph into a permanent, and pernicious, habit if it goes unchecked. No matter how well-intentioned the behavior started out as, the person doing the controlling might find it hard to put the brakes on it, even after the initial danger to their loved one has effectively disappeared."

"So you're saying that you think I'll keep hovering over her more and more, even after the baby gets here?"

"Don't you think that's a distinct possibility? Look, she knows what you're like, that you've always kept a close eye on her and that you always will, and in agreeing to be with you, it's a given she's already accepted that part of who you are. What you're doing now is a whole new ballgame here, and one the rules of which might not want to make her stay on as a player. If you keep on pushing, she's going to push back with equal force-I'm sure I'm not telling you anything you don't already know."

"No, you're not. Listen," Booth said after a pause. "I'm going to drop you off at the Hoover; I have to go to the Jeffersonian. We'll meet up later to go over the case-in the meantime, maybe you can keep narrowing down our suspects."

Sweets smiled. "Sure, I understand, go ahead. Good luck, Booth."


	11. Intervention Numero Dos: Angela

Brennan sat alone in her darkened office with a blank computer screen staring back at her, desperately hoping that if anyone even noticed she was sitting there they would assume she was working on some important document and just leave her the heck alone. Trying to put a finger on what she was feeling, without the pressure of a thousand pieces of unsolicited advice coming her way like they invariably had every single day since she had announced her pregnancy. As if an expanding waistline were the moral equivalent of a desperate SOS signal issued from a sinking cruise liner to any and every passing ship.

It had slowly but surely become draining, all of it; the justifying, the explaining, the defending, the arguing. Draining and demoralizing.

Sad that this was what it had come down to for Temperance Brennan, expert forensic anthropologist with multiple PhD degrees and a regular on the New York Times' best-seller list: an elaborate and puerile game of dodge ball. If her colleagues didn't know she was in her office, or if they thought she was too busy, she would remain somewhat safe from their dreaded counsel. So here she sat, ensconced in the gloom, quietly waiting for some major revelation to hit her.

The stupid charade, which she knew was fully beneath her, went on for a while and actually seemed to be working until the light-headedness and the hunger pangs besetting her for the last hour compelled a desperate lunge for the emergency protein bar stashed away at the bottom of her purse. She ripped open the wrapper and bit down hard on the stale rectangle, regretting at that first awful, medicinal taste the fact that she had skipped a real breakfast.

And then it finally came to her; vexation, all-consuming, infernal vexation; _that's_ what she was feeling.

And right now, few things could be more vexing than the thought that maybe Booth was justified in worrying about her and the baby, about the way she dressed, or went about her job, or ate-or didn't eat-as had been the case this morning when, caught in the maelstrom of her bitter diatribe, she had simply forgotten to. She could practically hear his moralizing, paternalistic voice soapboxing her on the importance of eating at regular intervals during pregnancy, and it stung.

She chewed on the cloyingly sweet and chalky roll with little pleasure and even less finesse, washing it all down with water from her new best friend: the stainless steel bottle emblazoned with a little skull and crossbones that Booth had given her as a gift some weeks ago to make sure she stayed well-hydrated. Maybe the next present would be a microchip implanted under her skin at a vet clinic, so he could keep even better tabs on her.

Why was it that all those things which had once been so simple were now impossibly muddled? She still couldn't believe she had openly admitted to herself, let alone to Cam, that she worried about Booth when he wasn't in her sights. It was the concern of a deranged person; baselessly ludicrous. It was an incontrovertible fact that he was more than able to take care of himself. He'd been an Army Ranger, for crying out loud, just as she had been perfectly capable of staring down firing squads all on her own. And yet, here they both were, pathetically fretting over each other's safety; she, the humorless, plucky heroine in some overwrought Victorian gothic romance, and he, the handsomely brooding stranger obstinately standing guard over her against her will. Maybe it _was_ the hormones, she seethed. And wouldn't _that_ just be the final insult.

But if it was just hormones, then what the devil was _his_ excuse?

She felt the baby's vigorous kick as the sugar finally made its way into her bloodstream, and the shakiness she had been experiencing for the last few minutes began to wane. The resentment and the conflicting emotions, however, perversely clung to her like a cloud of noxious fumes.

As much as she didn't want to own up to it, Cam's words this morning had affected her; she just wasn't sure in what way. This new world where everything and everyone suddenly felt they had the right to inspect, critique, and even direct her life, not always to best effect, was virgin territory for her and no matter how hard she tried, none of it made any sense.

The moody ramblings continued their forward parade as she let the so-called 'food' settle. Although she wasn't hungry anymore, she forced herself to eat some almonds purely for the baby's sake and to placate the invisible Booth perennially looking over her shoulder. Maybe she should just go ahead and confide all these new fears to Angela-to hell with what was theirs being theirs, since clearly, with Cam's recent involvement in their situation, this relationship rule no longer seemed to apply. Angela was the only person she felt comfortable talking to these days, and the only person she felt would almost surely take her side.

Unbeknownst to Brennan, her friend was already right down the hall, having finally dared to walk back to Cam's office to deliver the preliminary findings as to the killer's nesting site. Brennan was definitely on Angela's to-do list this morning- just not this very minute, because this new information was of vital importance to the authorities and it had to come first, even when she was dying to make a detour.

Angela had waited a couple of extra minutes to give her boss some time to decompress after the argument she had just overheard between the two colleagues and perennial office frenemies. Even so, approaching her had taken some courage because Angela knew just how short Cam could be with those around her when her authority was questioned, particularly by Brennan. But this really was a matter of life and death, and she was left with no other choice but to face the possible executioner's axe awaiting her on the other side of Cam's door.

By the time Angela walked in, the coroner thankfully appeared composed enough, if not entirely happy. It was as good as Angela figured she was going to get from her today.

Together the two women went over the facts, with both ultimately agreeing that the coordinates which had been provided by Angela's program were in all likelihood correct. Not _the_ location exactly, because the interns hadn't been able to fully examine all the variables yet, but at least the many warehouse buildings that together made one giant nightmare of an investigation site had been reduced to one. With a little more time, that large building would hopefully be further whittled down to a specific floor, and maybe even to one room.

Cam called Booth to give him the news.

"So there you have it," Cam concluded her recap in a businesslike tone. "I'm sending you the schematics right now; they should be coming up on your screen any minute, and I'll send you any updates as soon as we get them."

Angela heard Booth's brusque, impatient voice blaring over the loudspeaker.

"Cam, I need more than that; that one building's still too big, and it's full of heavily plated, metal doors that all seem for some bizarre reason to be dead-bolted shut. The walls are too damn thick to just break through-we've already tried-so we're going to have to rely on a welding team to get us in. If you guys can't figure out the room, or at least the floor, it'll be days before we get around to finding the right spot."

"Seeley, don't you think we're trying our hardest here? As to your building, it was a turn of the century cold-storage facility; that explains why the walls are so thick and there's all those metal doors-the rooms were actually individual refrigeration compartments. It's going to take some time to narrow down a specific location given the strange configuration and angles of the windows-we're scientists, not magicians" she explained slowly, as if she were speaking to a child, and Angela smiled because dealing calmly with adolescent personalities was perhaps what Cam did best as head of the lab.

"Look," she continued, "I told you I'd call as soon as we got anything else. It shouldn't be long. I can messenger the larger diagram of the complex with our notations over to you right now if you think it'll help so your guys can get at least get a head start."

"Don't bother-I'm coming by to pick it up myself."

The two women looked at each other simultaneously, and Angela would have bet anything that they were both thinking the same thing; a diagram wasn't what was bringing Booth to the Jeffersonian. Angela was fairly certain about what was prompting the agent's unexpected layover, and after hastily exiting Cam's office with promises to return asap, she hurried over to Brennan's in hopes of preventing another disastrous scene between two people she cared about like the one she had witnessed earlier that morning.

"Hey, we're getting close to finding out where the killer was hiding; just thought you'd like to know" she said casually, peering into the darkness that enveloped her friend.

"I'm not really involved with this case, Angela" Brennan replied flatly. "Perhaps you should call Booth and let him know-it's his case."

"Cam and I called him already and we told him we'd send him anything else we found, but he's coming by anyway. My guess is it doesn't have all that much to do with a burning desire to look at a hard copy of our findings."

"I'm not particularly interested in his reasons for coming over to the Jeffersonian."

Angela entered the office with the aplomb of a woman on an errand of mercy, turning on a floor lamp to its lowest setting in an effort to preserve the quiet mood that pervaded the room. Calm; everyone needed to stay calm. She shot her best friend a pointed look.

"I was standing right by Cam's office when I heard the fight between you two."

"It wasn't a fight" Brennan said matter-of-factly; "it was simply a disagreement over employment practices."

"Call it what you will, but it wasn't pretty. I almost got caught in the crossfire of a guerilla war I didn't even know was going on. Talk to me here, sweetie; it doesn't do any good to hold that stuff in, especially now" she said, pointing at Brennan's midriff. "Bad for mother and baby."

Brennan rolled her eyes at the latest in a long line of inescapable exhortations that seemed to follow her wherever she went.

"She sided with Booth, Angela, over me; over her obligation to utilize the resources at her disposal in the most efficient, rational manner." There was finally a glimmer of emotion in Brennan's voice, but what Angela got from it wasn't the anger she expected; it was despondence.

"If you're saying that Cam chose friendship-and not just with Booth, but with you as well, over the requirements of her job, well, I don't think that's all that bad."

"She had no right to pull me off this case without at the very least consulting with me first, and neither did Booth."

"I take it there was a more heated version of the so-called 'disagreement' over at your house with Booth this morning."

"Sometimes I feel like I got in way over my head when I embarked on this relationship, Angela. He can be utterly exasperating; he's controlling, deceitful…"

"And loving, and protective."

"Are you're now siding with him as well, I see" Brennan intoned sorely.

"No honey, I'm not. Granted, I do have a soft spot for Booth because well, he's gorgeous for one, and he's nice, and he takes care of my best friend…"

"I don't need to be taken care of."

"Of course not; we both know that. And if Hodgins had pulled that crap on me, heaven knows I would have really lost it, same as you-maybe even worse."

"So what am I supposed to do? I can't just give in to his demands and casually accept him taking over my whole life, piece by piece; it's become unbearable. Not just at work," she went on plaintively; "he watches what I eat, what I'm wearing, where I walk. Hundreds of thousands of women go through pregnancies all by themselves every year and manage just fine without a man lording over them."

Angela sat on the edge of Brennan's desk, watching the scientist with fondness, and also with concern. She knew that if the situation with Booth wasn't defused soon, it might become unfixable, and her friend might be end up considering alternatives which would not be in anyone's best interest, least of all her own.

"Look," Angela began, ready to put her peace-making skills to the test. "There are two types of guys when it comes to their pregnant gals; those who go skiing with their frat buddies a week before the due date without an ounce of thought or regret, and those who watch over them like a hawk. You and I, we got the second variety, except that yours might be a just a _tiny_ bit on the extreme end of that scale-like out by Jupiter. But try to imagine how he's got to be feeling. He didn't get to be around Rebecca much when she was pregnant with Parker, so it's practically like he's a first time dad when it comes to this. And knowing Booth like I do and how he loves to go on guilt-trips, I bet he's feeling kind of responsible for putting you into this situation to begin with. He's just overcompensating."

"I take full responsibility for my pregnancy; it's my body, and I should have taken the necessary precautions when we had sex, and I didn't. If I believe that women have the right to govern their own bodies at all times, including the gestation period for a baby, and I do, then the same has to apply to the act of conception. I don't blame him for what happened; there is no blame, there's only a child, and one I'm very happy about carrying regardless of how it came about. What I'm not pleased with is Booth's constant interference in my affairs, particularly when it comes to my work."

"Booth doesn't see it that way; for him, he's 50 percent of that conception equation. Have you forgotten that little lesson you got when you inaccurately concluded that Jared was _the_ man? If you did, let me remind you: for better or worse, Booth is the ultimate alpha male. You Jane, he Tarzan; besides, he loves you."

"You're siding with him again" Brennan responded, narrowing her eyes at Angela. "Besides, love can't possibly mean that you get to dictate the terms under which someone else lives. That's not love; it's a form of slavery. Regardless of how noble the reasons might be behind his impossible behavior, I can barely tolerate the constant scrutiny now; what's it going to be like after our daughter gets here? This may very well be it for me," she said bleakly.

Angela laughed and shook her head.

"I'm the keeper of a little well-known secret which I wasn't going to share with you because I don't believe in terrifying unsuspecting first time mothers before delivery. Besides, they're all going to find out about it soon enough. But you're giving me no choice sweetie, so brace yourself for the shock; be forewarned though, it's your own fault if it makes you run for the hills screaming. You ready?"


	12. Of Girls and Rings

"You're forcing me to betray my oath of secrecy to parents everywhere, and you've got no one but yourself to blame for what you're about to hear" Angela said, wagging her finger at Brennan in rebuke.

"Sweetie," she began somberly, "once that baby gets here, it's every man for himself-I'm being one hundred percent serious. Give it 'til about the second week and you'll be poking Booth with your sharpest forensic tool to try to get him to change a diaper for you in the middle of the night. By that point, he's going to be so damn tired that he won't be able to keep both eyes open, let alone keep them on you in any way, shape or form. The stalking you're so concerned about now will lose a lot of its punch. And I mean _a lot_. It may not go away entirely, but it'll probably be no worse than it was before you got pregnant."

Brennan looked dubious.

"You don't know what Booth is like," she said.

"Sure I do, especially when it comes to you; but I don't care if Booth's the spitting image of Florence Nightingale, he's still a guy and by then he'll be a guy without sleep. So just wait and see, and then tell me I wasn't right in a couple of months. There isn't a single woman on the planet who won't agree with me on this. No more "watch your step, honey;" no more "let me run to the grocery store to get you whatever you happen to be craving at this very minute." You'll both be trading exhausted looks and "can you do its" quicker that you can spit out "I did it the last time."

Brennan mulled over this new information, the scientist in her deliberating on whether it was trustworthy or not. It was hard to argue with experience, though, and as mildly disturbing as this altered version of the future was, she couldn't deny that it was also making her feel slightly better about the present.

"Oh, and while you're digesting that unsavory piece of eye-opening news" Angela continued spiritedly, "go ahead and cut my man Booth some slack; I think he's just as thrown off by this whole pregnancy first/dating later stuff as you are. Count on me when I tell you all this excessive bird-dogging will pass; Hodgins and I practically play hide and seek with each other now whenever Michael is colicky or has to go to the emergency room in the middle of the night with an ear infection. Whoever goes soft first and caves in to the crying gets the prize. That's just how it goes these days: the weakest link ends up with the cranky baby. Just hang on a little longer, and in the meantime, put up with what you can and do go ahead and tell him off when it becomes too much-he'll get it eventually. And let him have it full-tilt when you're pushing out that baby of his; it's what childbirth is really for. But running away to the office instead of discussing the issue in an adult manner is never going to work-I've tried it, and it sucks. It just makes for some very cold, lonely nights when you should be comforting each other the most."

"I was very hard on Cam as well" Brennan said guiltily.

"She's a good person, Brennan, and she's looking out for you too-I've seen the worry on her face lately when you go with her on assignments. Let's be real; if something happens out there, neither she nor Booth are going to ever be able to forgive themselves. Maybe you should give in to their demands temporarily, until all your reflexes are back online."

"I'm just tired; tired of fighting, of making concessions; tired of weighing the pros and cons of every choice I make" Brennan stated simply. And it was true, all those things she was telling Angela; physically and mentally, she was bushed. "It's getting to the point where I'm no longer certain whether I'm right about any of the decisions I'm making, even when logically I _know_ I'm right. I'm losing perspective Angela, and it terrifies me," she announced despairingly. "Do you realize that for the first time since I've known him I let myself acknowledge how much it scares me to think of Booth going out to a potentially active crime scene without me? That I'm actually worried about him? I've come very close to losing him before; I even thought he was dead once, and I managed to retain my focus. But if something should happen to him now, I'm no longer convinced that I would be capable of functioning. What is wrong with me?" she asked dolefully. "Everything has changed since we got together."

"Because your lives have become so much more intertwined. And there is nothing wrong with you. It was bound to happen; it happened to me, even when I was fighting it with all I had" Angela confided. Brennan looked away into the distance, past her door; past the walls of the Jeffersonian, into some private place or time that Angela couldn't reach.

"Did you know that he gave me a ring less than two months after I told him I was pregnant?" she said out of the blue, her voice a whisper.

"An engagement ring" Angela replied, and Brennan was caught off-guard by the fact that Angela was not asking a question-she was making a statement.

"It was never categorized as such, but yes, I believe that's what it was intended to be." Brennan studied Angela's face. "You don't seem very surprised by the news."

"What can I say," she replied with a mysterious smile; "Avalon's convinced I have latent psychic skills. She swears if I just keep practicing with those tarot cards, I'll end up giving her a run for her money. It would certainly come in handy when the office pool rolls around."

"He didn't propose; said he wouldn't, that he wouldn't do that to our relationship. He told me that if I ever decided I wanted to get married, I should put it on my ring finger and he would know, but that there was no pressure simply because he was giving it to me; I could just wear it on my other hand if I wanted to. He said it was meant to be a symbol of his commitment to me and nothing more."

"Awww, that's the most romantic non-proposal I've ever heard; right up there with Hodgins' light-up sushi platter. Well, you obviously aren't wearing it yet, but what did you think of it, if I might be so bold as to ask?" There seemed to be more than casual interest written into the question.

"He walked away after he gave it to me, and I never opened the box. It's sitting inside the drawer of my nightstand."

"Are you kidding me? You have the self-restraint of a Tibetan monk" Angela retorted, flabbergasted. "A woman who gets a little black box from a jeweler and doesn't even take a peek? Isn't the curiosity killing you? Honey, you are _definitely_ special" Angela asserted, taking Brennan's wrist and pretending to feel for a pulse. "Are we really sure you're not one of the walking undead?"

"I didn't want to be influenced by it, Angela" Brennan repined, hoping her friend of all people would understand her reasons. "And contrary to what Booth thinks, there _is_ pressure inherent in him giving me that ring. I don't want sentiment to play a part when and if I ever reach the decision to get married, and I'm afraid that my emotions might cloud my judgment if I saw it."

"Feelings coming into play when deciding whether or not to tie the knot? Oh, just imagine, the horror!" Angela shot back jokingly. "So what's the deal? I know you probably think it's an antiquated ritual, maybe even a slightly patriarchal tradition as you view it-is that why you won't do it?"

"It's been a long time since I overcame my original aversion to the institution of marriage; I can see that it does have valid cultural significance for many people, including Booth, as well as some practical benefits. And I actually _have_ considered marrying Booth. It would make things easier legally, particularly with the baby."

"Convenience and practicality; you absolutely _have_ to bring that up when you write your wedding vows. Just think of how the guests at your ceremony will be going for their hankies when you look into Booth's loving, expectant eyes and recite those words to him: 'for better or worse, in sickness and in health, for as long as practicality and convenience shall both live." Angela laughed heartily, until she noticed that the good-natured ribbing was flustering her friend more than she had intended. As much fun as she was having, she made a real effort to reign in her teasing.

"So, if you're not all that opposed to the concept anymore, why not do it? What gives?"

"This, this whole situation; if he thinks he has rights over me now, imagine what will happen once we're married."

"I'm sorry to disagree with you, but no, I don't think that's actually it. I think that's just the excuse you're using. And if Booth was behaving any differently now, you'd just find another excuse to take its place."

"I don't understand."

"I watch you guys all the time because honestly, it still blows my mind to see you together like that, and it also happens to make me incredibly happy, like the universe is working exactly as it should. Brennan," Angela said in a far more subdued and confidential tone than before. "I remember how it was with you when we first met; all work, all science, all logic, and all carefully locked-up hurt and anger. Anyone who came too close to you, to your heart, your first reaction was to push them away. You did it with Sully, and then you tried with your brother and your dad-if it wasn't for Booth, bless him, you might never have reconnected with your family at all. But this is different honey, because this time you _know_ that this is it-it's the last train to Clarksville. However long it took, you've fallen head over heels for Booth and you're starting to realize that if something comes between you, whatever it is, whether it's another person, or death even, life will never ever go back to being what it was before you became a family. And it scares you stiff-please just admit it, if not to me, then at least to yourself."

Brennan closed her eyes, and Angela saw tears brimming in her eyes.

"I don't want to feel this way. There are way too many variables, none which are within my power to control."

"_One_ of them is. You can allow yourself to love him to the fullest, to live life without letting the possibility of loss take that amazing experience away from you. Please don't allow ghosts and shadows to rob you of one of life's greatest gifts."

"I don't know if I can do that. I'm not sure I'm strong enough-I thought I was, but not anymore."

Angela titled her head and sighed. "I know all you've gone through in your life; how hard you've fought for what you have now with Booth, with your family and your friends. If there's anything in this world I'm sure about, it's that you are definitely strong enough."

"What, to overcome my fear of marriage?"

"No, to overcome your fear of giving yourself completely to someone, whether that entails marriage or not. I'm going to share something with you that not even Hodgins knows about me. This life I have now is not the one I expected to be living; that part's not much of a surprise. The surprise is that the prospect of settling down in any sort of permanent way always scared the bejeesus out of me when I was younger, and I swore I would never do that to myself, no matter how tempted I was. I certainly didn't grow up in a conventional family setting, and I looked down on anything that remotely looked like one; it seemed too confining, too predictable-too much by way of personal sacrifice and loss of individuality involved. Yet here I am, driving a generic minivan with a car seat in it, working at the same unglamorous place every single day, sleeping with the same even-keeled man every night. And you know what, it ain't half bad, actually. And if for some horrendous reason all this miraculous stuff I have now got taken away from me, it would still have been worth having, even knowing that I would end up losing it all at some point."

"The difference between you and me, Angela, is that it _was_ all taken away from me once before, and I'm already fully aware of how insurmountably painful it was. I don't think I can risk that much ever again, not even with Booth-not in that way."

"So once bitten, twice shy, is what you're saying?"

"You could put it that way."

"It's already happened, Brennan, can't you see? You're already there with him, and you can't go back to how things were in the past no matter how hard you try, to how uninvested you felt in relationships before you fell in love with Booth. Keeping some sort of imaginary wall up between you two, holding back that little piece of yourself, whether it be through a rejection of marriage or by keeping that little secret plan in the back of your mind I happen to know you must have for distancing yourself from him if you need to, as if at any time you could hop off the ride and save yourself from pain, is just an illusion. You're only fooling yourself if you think you could still walk away at any time without paying a very steep price. You might as well let go and jump in with both eyes open, aware that yes, there's hurt associated with loving someone so completely, but there's also limitless joy. It's the most powerful feeling in the world, to love that way."

Angela put her hand on her friend's arm, and smiled warmly. "Whatever you do, don't let the past take all those wonderful possibilities lying ahead in your future away from you." She slid off the desk, and walked away, but not before giving Brennan one last bit of heart-felt advice. "If I were you, I'd go home tonight and open up that box tucked away in your nightstand and pull out that ring, just to let yourself have a look. A good, long look."

"Why, so I can be tempted by its sparkle to finally put it on?" Brennan asked archly, carelessly brushing off the suggestion.

"No; so that you can be reminded of exactly why it is you love him so much to begin with."


	13. Global Crisis on Hold

When Booth stopped by the lab to try to convince his girlfriend to go home with him, he was surprised by the complete lack of resistance he found on her part. No bargaining of any kind, even though he'd been prepared to bring her the moon and the stars as part of the deal if that's what she wanted. After uttering a simple 'yes', she followed him wordlessly to the garage without the imposition of any conditions or even a demand for the lamest of apologies. Her almost meek compliance was enough to put him on edge, but who was he to argue with whatever was going on in that amazing, always perplexing mind of hers.

Bones was with him, and whether that would eventually be accompanied by a side order of fried rebuke or an ultimatum ala mode didn't matter; he felt the elemental relief of being with her again, regardless of the price tag that might be associated with that heady experience.

He waited until they were far from the Jeffersonian and the ears of the squints before he spoke, in case there was a change of heart about leaving her car behind.

"Bones, whatever I have coming, I deserve it. I'm really sorry about this morning-and all the other stuff I did before."

"Is this one of those times when you tell me that you're sorry for doing something that upsets me and then you proceed to inform me that you'll continue doing it anyway because you can't help it?" He looked over and saw her wounded eyes, so blue and so soulfully bare to him, and it hurt.

"No. This is one of those times I tell you I'm sorry and I'm going to definitely change the way I act so I don't keep hurting you, like I know I just did. It's not fair to keep hounding you like that."

"I _was_ hurt, Booth. I still haven't found the proper, rational way to express how much-so I yelled at you and then later at Cam when I should have reacted in a more appropriate, level-headed way instead. I just know that what you both did made me feel very small, and I haven't felt quite that way, that irrelevant and powerless, in a long time."

He winced, and the weight of her words made his insides lurch. "I know that. And I know that nothing ties you to me other than the fact that you voluntarily want to be in this relationship; I'm painfully aware that not even us having a baby together can make you want to stay with me if you really don't want to. Bones, I don't want to mess this up," he said with a tremor in his voice, "and that's what's going to happen if something doesn't change, isn't it?"

There was no answer, but he could take a good guess as to what it would be.

"I'm not very good at this" he admitted with regret.

"Neither, apparently, am I."

"But we can work on it and fix it, I _know_ we can. I have this problem where I keep doing the same things over and over with the people I love, even when I know how it's going to end up. It's always good at the beginning, and then I get found out. And I don't want to keep doing that because there's too much at stake here now. Other than Parker, nothing has ever mattered as much to me as what you and I have, and I'm willing to do whatever it takes to save it. I have to." He became suddenly silent.

"This whole situation is stupid, Booth. You don't have to do all the 'saving' on your own; I have to be part of the solution as well for this-whatever it is we have-to work properly. But that means that you have to include me in your decisions, especially when they concern me."

After debating which strategy to use for dealing with this current mess, which included Booth's relentless need to take responsibility for everything that had to do with them as a unit, Brennan opted for complete candor. Even when it meant showing Booth a part of herself he might not want to see.

"It's not just you that is creating the problem; it's me that is also making things more difficult between us. Cam believes I don't take your feelings about my condition and the baby's safety into account enough when I go about my life, and as much as it pains me to admit it, I believe she's right. I have to accept the fact that I'm no longer a person who doesn't have to justify her actions to others. What I do affects our child-that part is obvious to me. What I have to bring myself to acknowledge is that it also impacts you, and that this matters as well. Whether I think you're being unreasonable or not, I should at least give you the opportunity to voice your opinion and I should take your fears and concerns under advisement. I just wish you felt like you could share them with me, rather than assuming I'm not interested or that I'm so inflexible nothing you say will affect my behavior. I suppose it's partly my fault for not being more receptive to your worries in the past."

"It's the baby, Bones, and it's this case. I keep thinking of Vincent, of how quickly everything changed in the blink of an eye, of how close you came to taking that phone from me. I can't see straight these days and I realize I need to take a step back and look at what the real dangers to you are, and not just see threats coming out of every damn corner. Sweets says I feel responsible for this, for putting you in a position that makes you vulnerable. Maybe he's right."

"Angela brought up the exact same thing earlier this morning. It would appear that between Sweets, Angela, Cam and occasionally my dad and Hank, it might actually take a village to keep us going in the right direction."

"Maybe just a hamlet, huh?" he said with a smile.

"We must seem pathetic to anyone looking at us" she answered, only half-joking.

"Just a little clueless sometimes, I think."

"As much as I hate the thought of outsiders meddling in our affairs, I agree with the general consensus that what we desperately need right now for our relationship to succeed is compromise. It's not a word I'm very comfortable with by any means, but it's one I'm just going to have to get used to from now on. I suppose if you truly believe that the situation warrants taking extraordinary precautions, I'm willing to stay behind at the lab for your sake and that of our unborn daughter. Just be mindful not to be too generous with your definition of that term, or I will simply go back to not listening to you."

"I give you my word, Bones. It's going to be different this time, I promise" he said, reaching over and taking her hand. "I love you, you know that, right?"

She nodded her assent, and with his words, words that she knew to be as completely genuine as he himself was, she felt another part of those ancient, heavy walls crumble to the ground. No doubt there were barriers between them still, but after all, Rome wasn't built in one day and neither were those walls of hers-everything took time to change.

"A pregnancy with so little by way of a real courtship behind it makes everything more complicated" she said cautiously, avoiding his eyes. "Booth, if you could go back in time, would you change the way things happened?"

He took her hand again, squeezing it gently before putting it up to his lips.

"Not a thing Bones; not a thing" he replied without hesitation, as he remembered one particular, very special night so many months ago. "Would you?"

"Probably not" she said with a smile, letting his answer and the passing scenery lull her into a quiet, dreamlike state. She leaned back into the seat and closed her eyes, all of the accumulated stress of the day finally beginning to dissipate in the wake of their easy conversation.

"I know I said I'd be taking you home, but would you mind going with me first to the warehouse that the shooter used for a hideout? Cam just sent us a new diagram, and this time I think we have the right place he shot from. Sweets is already there, but I figured I would lend a hand for a couple of minutes, to make sure things were going the way they should."

"You don't think it's too dangerous for me to be there?" she asked in a sassy, nakedly baiting tone.

"You're a smart-ass, you know that? And no, I don't think it's too dangerous; it's an enclosed room and the place is currently crawling with police-I think you'll be okay" he answered with what he hoped would be equal amounts of sarcasm.

"But there's no body for me to examine; why would I want to go?"

He made a face. "Because you would be with _me_, and that's got to count for something, right?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "It might. We'll have to wait and see if you are able to make it worthwhile for me."

The car came to a sudden stop in the middle of the road, and he leaned over and took her face in his hands, kissing her with as much passion as a man twisting himself at an unnatural angle and with a steering wheel in front of him could manage. The truck behind them honked impatiently, and Booth released his hold on her and gave the driver a dirty look in his rear-view mirror as he drove on.

"There, did that make it a little more worth it for you? There's lots more where that came from" he said with a grin.

"I'll admit I'm intrigued by your offer. I'll go. Besides, it will be nice to be part of an investigative team again-I can't remember what that feels like anymore."

"Smart ass" he muttered under his breath. "Always a smart-ass."


	14. A Beautiful View

From behind the cracked panes of an old, cobwebbed window, a pair of pale blue eyes, the color of a frigid alpine pool, stared with interest at the busy scene coming together ever so nicely below. Everything looking almost exactly as it had a few hours before at the mall across the highway-minus the ambulances, of course. But the rest? Practically the same, to a tee. The recycled police cars and FBI vehicles full of equipment, and probably the very same agents and technicians as well, beginning to swarm the fallow fields behind the abandoned set of structures that had once been the Pinkham Cold Storage and Refrigeration Company. A place where the raw masses of flesh that had been torn asunder in the nearby slaughterhouse were carted in to be quartered and frozen, until train cars could haul the ice-covered carcasses away to distribution points all over the east coast. Ironic that the slaughterhouse itself had operated where the mall now stood, just across the street.

Death and mayhem right back where they belonged. Who said there was no justice in this world?

From the processing structure in Pinkham's giant complex, red, gelatinous rivulets had flowed for decades into the now barely visible covered drainage ditch that followed the lines of that empty field in back, the stomach-churning liquid eventually coming to merge with the already filthy Potomac River miles away. Pinkham's really was the ideal place for the fulfillment of his magnum opus, the spot where very shortly those shapeless dreams he'd been harboring for as long as he could remember would coalesce into something real and magnificent. As real as the frozen corpses that had once dangled from hooks slowly rusting away within the building's tawny-colored walls.

The perfect place for the fiery culmination of a life's worth of frustration and denial. No one had ever been so woefully underestimated, he thought spitefully. That would all be changing very soon.

Detective units had been circling around since the shooting, like bloodhounds going berserk because they knew the fox was out there, but they had not yet been able to catch the scent. Poking haphazardly up and down the abandoned compound and coming up empty, as he knew they would. Not that they probably expected to discover anything but minute remnants from his excursion he was sure, given his past habits. As if they could ever find anything that he didn't want found. And he had never left anything behind for their amusement. Absolutely nothing, and he figured it had to be driving them crazy.

They couldn't possibly guess that he was back in the nest, looking down on them with contempt, after having gained access through the tunnel that extended from the old drainage ditch to the buildings. With keys in his pocket and diagrams in his backpack that allowed him to slip in and out of passageways and doors that were closed off to the rest of the world. And if you didn't know _exactly_ where you were heading to when you went about strolling through Pinkham's, the mazes, the sudden drops and the dead ends would swallow you alive.

He could be anywhere and everywhere in these linked, honeycombed structures, and he'd taken advantage of that ability over the last few months to ensure that nothing would go wrong today. Observant and meticulous, he had gone over every inch of the abandoned warehouses that would become his temporary, and quite possibly his final, home. He was only sorry he would miss the headlines tomorrow; a radio would have to do while the party was in progress, unless he could manage to somehow get out in one piece. That part, though, was definitely iffy as well as unimportant.

How prescient of him to have held on to those keys from the days when the buildings had an owner who gave a damn about liability and lawsuits, enough to hire him and a few other drifters as temporary security guards to keep the meth cookers, the drug addicts and the gangbangers at bay. He'd never returned that set of keys because a voice in his head had whispered that he might be needing them in the future. And in the bankruptcy and the messy, still unresolved receivership that followed, no one had bothered to ask for them back. Another bit of luck, another potent sign that it was all meant to be.

The idea that was taking form today was just a tiny seedling back then, the barest of thoughts, but it had grown and thrived over the years. With every new, short-lived job, with every failed relationship and every stinging rejection. So he had held on to the keys and the diagrams and the plans, saving them for the day when this place could become the staging area for his own version of the bonfire of the vanities.

Everything up 'til now had just been dress rehearsals. This afternoon, however, would be different-it was Showtime.

The set was ready, had been for days before he took the shots that erased two names from the city's yellow pages this morning; now all he needed was for the actors to show up. Not actors, though-no need to give them that much credit. Just puppets. He was the puppet master, and they would perform for him as the world held its collective breath right up through the triumphant conflagration that was coming.

And by the looks of it, the hounds might just have finally figured out where they were supposed to be going.

Good; he was tired of waiting.

One last look out the window, when the sight of two people emerging from a black SUV made him stand up and squint at first, and then gawk rather openly. A tall man in a dark suit. It was too far to actually be able to recognize the face, but there was something that struck a bell about him, about the confident way he walked and carried himself as he went about directing the people around him. Probably one of the same FBI guys that had been snooping around the last few crime scenes-he was getting good at telling them apart now, he kept seeing the same people so often. No worries. He'd meet him again soon enough. But it wasn't really the man who left him staring; it was the woman standing right next to him. Even from up here he could tell she was a beauty, a mass of shiny dark brown hair blowing around in the wind, and the revelation of refined, intelligent features when she pulled her hair back away from her eyes and looked up at the building. He immediately slunk back into a corner, just in case. But he was ultimately too taken with her. He came back for a second look.

No; he had definitely never seen her before at a crime scene. A woman so striking, he would have remembered even from this distance. She was pregnant, that much he could tell. Was she FBI personnel too? His fingers itched, and he instinctively looked at the backpack that held his disassembled rifle. It would be a damn shame to destroy something so lovely, but it was also an undeniably powerful temptation; the officer he had picked off in front of the movie theater had garnered him the kind of attention he could only have dreamt of in the past. People were interested-more than interested-enthralled, fascinated with it all. Every grisly detail about the event, the personal stuff about the cop and her family, his prowess as a hunter. It was everywhere you turned; on the radio, the TV, front news on the paper, even international coverage. So very tantalizing to get that kind of free publicity again, and it would only take a few seconds to put that rifle together.

_Get a hold of yourself_, he thought angrily, running his hands over his brow and thinning hair to mop up some of the anxious sweat that was starting to run down the sides of his face. He reluctantly stepped away from the window. _This is more than just about instant gratification and one more headline, Teddy boy. It's the big one that will set you apart, that will show them, all of them, how stupid they were to dismiss you. Don't let yourself spoil it for one last, greedy kill. Keep your sights on the prize, Sergeant Grant. Keep your sights on the real prize._

Besides, wouldn't it be nice to see her face-to-face.


	15. Tick Tock

"Here Bones, you forgot your water" Booth said sheepishly, handing over the shiny silver container to her as they got out of the car.

Some things were going to change for sure, but some things would stay exactly the same, and both of them knew it.

A pursed-lipped Brennan accepted the offering without uttering even a single snarky comment in return. She had often heard the phrase "if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all." It was one of those insipid prosaicisms she happened to have a strong aversion to-and this one in particular annoyed her to no end because the world would actually be a better place if people could be more honest with one another-but she would adhere to its time-worn recommendation this time. No matter how hard he tried, Booth would always be watching out for her in one way or another. It was as ingrained in him as breathing, and nothing short of a miracle or an alien abduction, neither of which she believed in, would ever alter that.

Besides, the relatively minor inconvenience of having to carry a water bottle everywhere she went for the next couple of months she supposed she could live with.

She looked up at the imposing structure in front of them, and immediately understood why it had been so difficult to pinpoint where the shots had originated from. The building, connected to several others, was massive, with small windows that were not symmetrically spaced apart in typical fashion but instead appeared to have been punched out randomly. It would make the calculation of angles and trajectories a highly challenging task, and she made a mental note to compliment Angela on the success of her latest computer program. Lately, maybe because she was seeing the world a bit differently now that her life was so tied to someone else's, Brennan had become aware of the fact that she'd probably never quite demonstrated enough to Angela how much she truly appreciated both her skills in the lab as well as her friendship. Angela's support had been invaluable ever since she found out she was pregnant, and her help with relationship matters even more so, Brennan freely acknowledged. A sincere 'thank you' and maybe some flowers were in order.

After being led by a young, new FBI recruit through a seemingly interminable set of corridors, Booth and Brennan finally came upon a cavernous colonnaded space that apparently also contained several dark alcoves and closet-like side rooms in the back. About two dozen investigators, among them Cam and Hodgins, were already beginning to set up shop. They had to contend with rusty, jagged equipment strewn about that clearly dated back to the days when the facility had been in use.

And then there were those menacing looking, low-lying metal hooks dangling from thick wooden beams on the ceiling. Not only did they threaten the heads of the taller members of the team, they were also insistent reminders of the building's macabre history.

Booth grimaced as he ducked to avoid one of them, pitying the poor saps that would be stuck working here over the next couple of days-or weeks. Overall, it was an extremely dreary place where little of the spotty, warm afternoon sunshine from outside was managing to filter through, and it smelled of mold and age-and worse. The musty scent from the relentless parade of butchered animals that must have come through these buildings still clung to the brick walls like glue, and it felt to Booth that the room reeked of death. Even with the filth covering the floors, his expert eyes could make out the unmistakable brown stains left by all the blood that had dripped down from the hanging animal carcasses over the years. The atmosphere was both toxic and depressing, and it definitely gave him the willies. Apparently everyone else was feeling the same way, if the somber silence in the room was any indication.

For now most of the evidence-gathering activity centered on a front corner of the room, close to a narrow set of windows, one of which was missing a small pane of glass. There appeared to be a makeshift bed there-a thin mattress and pillow, and some ratty blankets. And the remnants of food: several empty coffee cups, sandwich wrappers and Gatorade bottles. Judging from the lack of dust, they seemed of fairly recent origin.

"Not many bugs on the crumbs; all relatively new stuff. Oh, and this is definitely a shell casing over here," Hodgins said, motioning for Booth and Brennan to come over. They neared the huddled scientists and Booth bent over slightly, looking intently at the object that was being gingerly held up to him by a set of plastic-coated tongs.

"Yup, it's the one" he said after a quick visual examination. "Same caliber-would know it anywhere."

"Dr. Brennan, it's nice to see you here" Cam said, looking up at the scientist with a sincere smile. She gave Booth an approving nod, and that friendly gesture seemed to lighten the existing mood somewhat.

"No smart-alecky stuff, now, remember" Booth warned as he stared at his partner through narrowed eyes.

"I was simply going to remark to Dr. Saroyan, Booth, that we have reached a tentative understanding regarding my presence at certain crime scenes during the remainder of my pregnancy. _I _will rely on Booth's judgment when it comes to possible security risks" she announced to the group, "and _he_ will not be completely ridiculous, as he has been, when it comes to assessing those risks."

"Touché. Man, I love it" Hodgins said, breaking into a huge grin. "You guys get to me every time" he finished, thumping his chest dramatically with his fist.

"Whatever, moving right along. So Sweets, what do we have so far?" Booth asked impatiently.

"It appears that this _was_ the spot from which the killer took his shots" Sweets said, pointing to an area near the missing window pane where the floor was wiped clean of dust. "Angela was right about the trajectory of the bullets. It's far though; this guy must be really good-as good as you and Broadsky, even."

Booth kneeled in front of the window and held an imaginary rifle in his hands, as expertly as if he'd been holding a real one.

"A little difficult, but not all that amazing with the right scope. Five hundred yards, more or less. Anything else?"

"Well, it's a decidedly a different set-up this time; he left a lot of items behind-he's never done that. With all we've got, especially the fingerprints and the DNA I suspect are all over the place, we could probably identify him rather quickly. I've got to tell you though, that this kind of pattern change concerns me. Why be so sloppy now, when he's never left us anything to work with before? He had plenty of time to clear out. Something about this isn't right."

"A copy-cat killing, maybe?" Cam inquired.

"I don't think so. It's like our man-and I'm sure it's a man-doesn't care anymore if we find out who he is or not. It's reckless, really, and in many ways, it's also extremely worrisome. It's the kind of thing serial killers start to do when they feel they're nearing the completion of a major task and it no longer matters to them if they get identified or not. In fact, he may _want_ us to find out who he is, for the sake of notoriety."

Booth's brow furrowed deeply when he heard that last part. "Are you saying he's got something really big in mind that might be happening soon?"

"Maybe" Sweets answered, shrugging his shoulders; "it could be his idea of a big finale. We really need to look around some more. The FBI techs are bringing in generators to power up some brighter lights and give us something to work with here. As you can imagine, there's no electricity to speak of in the building. The place has been vacant for at least 30 years."

"Dr. Hodgins, I thought Angela was going to be here with the rest of you" Brennan said. "I wanted to compliment her on the very expeditious manner in which she determined the killer's positioning."

"Michael had a little mishap at the daycare center. Apparently he takes after his daddy, and he conducted an 'experiment'-the daycare worker's very words-not mine" Hodgins added proudly, "which involved flinging his baby food all over his clothes for the third time today. Probably just trying to determine the adhesion ratios of different types of viscous matter on fabric. Angela was going to drop off some new clothes for him, since he's already used up all his extras. She should be coming by soon."

Brennan nodded, shivering slightly. "Why is it so cold in here?" she asked, involuntarily wrapping her arms around herself. "The temperature in this room must be at least twenty degrees lower than it is outside."

"Here," Booth said, slipping his jacket off his shoulders and automatically putting it around Brennan's.

"NO Booth-I'm fine" she retorted firmly as she struggled to hand the jacket back to its owner. "You need it; besides, it's got your phone and your notebook."

"So, I'll _take_ the phone. Just keep the jacket" Booth replied with equal stubbornness, still trying to force the offending article of clothing on his mate.

Cam felt the unwelcome stirrings of another major argument in the air and quickly stood up from her crouching position, wedging her way in between the obviously still tension-riddled couple.

"Refrigeration company, remember people?" she began in her perkiest, most informative voice, so reminiscent in her mind of poor Mr. Nigel-Murray's. "Walls must be at least six feet thick in places and they're filled with horsehair, which is an excellent, if outmoded, source of insulation. It gets cold in the winter and between the little sun that gets in and the massive walls, it stays that way even in the summer. Ideal conditions for a cold-storage facility. Must have been a delightful place to work in, between the darkness and the cold…and that" she said, pointing at the hooks overhead.

The distracting speech seemed to work, and Cam relaxed. Brennan had finally stopped fighting Booth's attempts to enfold her in his jacket, albeit with little graciousness, and even wrapped it a little tighter around herself before digging into one of the pockets and practically flinging Booth's phone at him.

At this rate Cam thought, biting her lip to keep herself from smiling, she would be a credible contender to win the Nobel Peace Prize this year. Although it could just as easily be going to Angela or Sweets, she knew. The competition was tough, and the opportunities for diplomatic intervention between the Republic of Booth and the Emirate of Brennan practically limitless.

"Hey Sweets," Booth began in a semi-whisper as he pulled his friend aside. "If you think you have things under control for now, I'm going to go ahead and take Bones home. She's had a long day and she's not dressed for this place, plus I have some big-time making up to do. Call me if anything comes up though, no matter what."

"No problem. Just collecting the evidence and looking around for additional clues is going to take several hours, if not more-not much anyone can do until the research teams report back with their findings. I'll call if something changes though, I promise."

Before completely handing the reigns of the investigation over to Sweets, Booth took a perfunctory look around to make sure that everything was going smoothly, only to be struck by the number of people that had suddenly invaded the space. With the growing crowd, the huge room now seemed much smaller than it had when he and Brennan had first walked in.

"Rodriguez" he called over to the inexperienced agent who had guided them in earlier, "why the hell are there so many people in here-isn't _anyone_ worried that they're going to mess up the crime scene?" Booth inquired with a frown.

"Well sir," the young man began nervously, "it's the usual staff from the FBI and the Jeffersonian. Plus, the state police from both Maryland and Virginia and the DC police all wanted in on this one. Deputy Director Hacker apparently told them they could come in as long as they didn't interfere with what we were doing. He's downstairs, talking to the press; you want me to check with him again, Agent Booth?"

Booth shook his head, cringing silently when he heard that Hacker was here. He knew his boss would do practically anything to stay in everyone's good graces, even at the risk of possibly compromising an investigation.

"I did ask them to at least keep over to the side while we get the preliminary evidence recovery work done. There's even a guy from the county" the agent said, shaking his head disapprovingly as he shot a look at a man working almost unseen in one of the poorly lit alcoves in the back of the room. "Says he has orders to be here, and that the higher-ups at the FBI approved. At this rate, Animal Control and the Bureau of Trees people are also going to be showing up before the day is done."

"The county? What the hell" Booth spat out as he began moving towards the interloper. He was going to get that imbecile out of the building one way or another, even if it meant throwing him out the window. There were already far too many cooks in this kitchen as it was, and even Hacker couldn't have fallen so low as to feel the need to suck up to a bunch of ragtag county bureaucrats.

As he lunged forward, a weird feeling suddenly made him come to a dead stop. Even in the relative darkness of the alcove, he could see a blue backpack sitting next to the man; the item triggered an overwhelming sense of déjà vu in Booth. Where the blazes had he just seen that thing? He cocked his head and took a step back, concealing himself behind one of the large concrete columns as he attempted to make what little he could of the half-hidden technician. The man was wearing a county uniform alright, but something was off. Because as he turned slightly and Booth got a sideways look at his features, he intuitively knew that this guy had no business being in that uniform. He'd seen him wearing something else before, recently, and it definitely hadn't been what he was wearing now.

The man turned towards him some more, too intent on whatever job he was performing to notice that he was being quietly inspected. As he worked, a ray of sunlight came in through the window, lighting up his features momentarily before disappearing once again behind a cloud.

It was enough for Booth.

The glasses were gone, but the pale blue eyes and the receding wispy blond hair were unmistakable to an Army Ranger sniper and FBI agent trained never _ever_ to forget a face-it was probably one of the most essential elements of his job. As soon as the sun had hit, he knew: the man he'd spoken with this morning, the one who'd been attending to the dead paramedic's partner in the mall's parking lot. Same bland features, same doughy build, same backpack. Different uniform, though. Instead of scrubs, he was outfitted in an official-looking county jumpsuit.

Except that it was highly unlikely that someone could hold two jobs so dissimilar. And without question, not both of them on the same day.

_What's he doing?_ Booth wondered, struggling to focus on the man's hands. _Dammit, why weren't the big lights on yet? _The guy had something between his fingers, something thin. Another lucky strike of sun, and then he had that too: a wire, he was almost positive as he looked more closely. A wire that came out of the alcove and which was almost invisible as it hugged the bottom of the dirty wall where it met the floor, and where it continued on to who knew where, buried almost completely from view by dust and debris.

Booth's blood ran cold the minute he saw that thin, insulated thread and the hairs at the back of his neck immediately stood on end, like someone had just walked all over his grave. No, not walked, he decided grimly; _stomped_ all over his grave, was more like it.

In a split second Booth understood that the place was rigged with explosives, and that the killer was brazenly putting the finishing touches on Sweets' 'big finale' right before the eyes of the very same people who'd been tasked with bringing him to justice.


	16. Hard Choices

A bomb; possibly more than just one. _That's_ why all that stuff was left behind-it was the lure that would inevitably bring them here and would keep them occupied until he saw fit to blow them all into kingdom come.

What a twisted victory that would be for the killer. A roomful, hell, a building full of the very same kind of people he hated, and each and every one of them soon to be either dead or dying. A lot more efficient than picking them off one by one, that's for sure-and definitely more of the headline-grabbing act the lunatic seemed to favor. The suspect had set up his trap expertly, knowing that they would eventually figure out the exact location he'd fired from and come knocking for clues.

How long did they have, Booth wondered. Minutes-an hour, if they were lucky? And what the hell was he waiting for? Maybe a bigger crowd, some extra news vans outside? Or the arrival of night, not that far off anymore, so that the ensuing fireworks display would be more chaotic and even more difficult to deal with? If there was one thing they already knew about their suspect, it's that he loved drama.

Booth turned around quickly, afraid that he'd be caught staring. He spoke to the guy a few hours ago-_God Almighty,_ he had even handed the wacko his card. There was no way the man wouldn't recognize him, and if he did, it might bring on a sense of urgency, and then...

The sheer magnitude of the discovery he'd just made left him disoriented and in a temporary state of near-paralysis, as a massive rush of blood exploded in his head. How could this be happening? His heart was racing at an out-of-control pace, and his temples throbbed blindingly as images of bodies flying through the air swam before his eyes. _All these people...all these people-and Bones._

And just as quickly as it had come, the feeling of complete helplessness disappeared. The years of grueling training and of level-headed, hardcore discipline that in effect were the lifeblood of his whole career-of his whole life, for that matter-brought him back to the inescapable present with all of its impending horrors. He was a soldier again, a soldier plunked right into the middle of a combat zone full of potential civilian casualties, and he had to do something to minimize the damage.

The wheels began turning inside his head as every conceivable option was explored and either rejected outright or saved for further study.

He immediately ruled out shooting the suspect, because if the detonator was on their man, a hit might make everything go off. Same if he attempted to subdue him. The killer might not care if he went up in tiny pieces along with the rest of them, so there was a likelihood he wouldn't hesitate to blow them all up while he was still in the room with them before going down.

First and foremost, it was essential to get all these other people out of here as soon as possible. He felt a crippling stab of guilt when he noticed Brennan still talking with Hodgins and Cam in the far corner of the room; her, he wanted to get out of here most of all-her and their baby. But she was too far away; he couldn't call her over without drawing attention to himself and giving the whole game away. And even if he managed to somehow get her to discreetly walk over to him without saying his name, in the mood she was already in, any suggestion that she go home or leave the building without going into a lengthy explanation might start an argument that would probably accomplish the very same thing.

_Great job, there, Special Agent Seeley Booth_ he thought, full of blistering recrimination. _You kept telling her how she should just rely on you to keep her safe, count on your excellent judgment when it comes to sniffing out danger, only to bring her right to the very center of the coming apocalypse._ Of all the times to ask her to come along on a fishing expedition… And why hadn't that guy raised any red flags in him when they'd been talking face to face earlier? Didn't Sweets remind him just this morning how these types of suspects invariably liked to weave their way onto a crime scene, try to connect with the investigating officers? The man had even come up to him for seconds, bringing up the dead pregnant cop and remarking how upset the whole thing was making him. With all his years of experience, how had he not spotted that odd behavior right away? _Way to go all around, Seeley._

As much as he wanted to run across the room and pull Bones out of there, he painfully acknowledged that she wasn't the only person in danger, or hers the only life worth saving. Cam, Hodgins, all of his colleagues were in there too. There were dozens of people trapped inside that space, people whose lives were entirely dependent on him now. Like it or not, they had all become his responsibility. Human beings who had just as much of a right to make it out of this place alive, to get back to their loved ones, as much as the woman who meant the whole world to him. His ethics and his sense of fair play wouldn't allow him to recklessly endanger all those lives without bothering to even give it a second thought. It was the worst possible nightmare scenario for him, the ultimate in agonizing moral dilemmas to contend with. His life he was willing to give up for others without hesitation, but to risk hers?

He put an end to these painful thoughts because he realized that in the long run, none of it mattered; the terrible reality was that even if he could overcome his principles and think only of her, any wrong move he might make in the process of getting her out could end up killing her anyway.

His mind went right back to specifics. What he really needed was a step-by-step plan that made sense and could be carried out quickly and efficiently.

Booth forced himself to walk towards the door he had originally come through, away from the killer, managing to catch Agent Rodriguez's eye in the process. He motioned the agent over nonchalantly, and the second he was within reach, he grabbed the young man's arm and yanked him out of the room-and out of earshot of the suspect. The kid was far too inexperienced and jittery to be of much help with this impossible situation, but he could probably rely on him to fetch him someone who could help get the job done: Erik Gustavson. Gustavson was his man, Booth knew, when it came to keeping his cool even under extreme pressure.

"Rodriguez," he began in as serene a tone as he could manage, "I need you to get a hold of Agent Gustavson in there and bring him out here without making a ruckus. Quickly" Booth added, looking right into Rodriguez's eyes and gripping his shoulders hard. "And whatever you do, don't mention my name. Tell him it's Hacker out here. Low-key, you hear me? Just act normal; normal voice. You think you can do that?"

"Yes sir," the wide-eyed agent responded military-style, nodding several times.

"Good-I'm counting on you. Now go-and remember, casual; no weird looks."

Booth released the agent's shoulders and attempted giving him a reassuring smile, even as he involuntarily looked at his watch: 3:45. How much longer did they have?

It might have been only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity before Erik Gustavson, a man in his late-fifties and as Nordic a stereotype as his name suggested, walked through the door into the hallway with Rodriguez, expecting to find Andrew Hacker. He looked around, puzzled.

"Booth…"

"Shhh. Listen to me, Erik. The killer's in there; I saw the same guy this morning dressed in scrubs; he was helping the dead paramedic's partner in the mall parking lot. He told me he worked as a resident in some hospital, but now he's in a county jumpsuit. He's our guy-positive. I'm also sure he's got explosives in there. There's a wire coming out of the back room, the one closest to the wall opposite to where we are. The bastard's so damn proud of himself, he's finishing up right in front of us, figuring we're way too stupid to notice. He hasn't seen me yet, and I can't take the risk of going back in there right now. He'll know I'll remember who he is. You've got to get downstairs and tell them to stop sending people in. Talk to Hacker in person, or he might not take it seriously. Bring back a demolition expert with you as soon as you can; regular squint gear and as little equipment as he can spare-no bomb squad lettering anywhere."

The agent, who'd been listening intently, nodded his understanding.

"Wait," Booth whispered hoarsely as Gustavson began to leave, "tell Hacker not to do anything else for now, or to make a lot of noise over this; if the killer suspects we've got him pegged, it's over. Have our guys look at any surveillance video we may have from this morning for our man-blonde, receding hairline, blue backpack. Maybe someone will recognize him."

"And what are you going to do? Is there any way you can take him out?"

Booth shook his head. "No-I can't take the chance. It might trigger an explosion. Same thing if I try disarming him. We've got to get these people out of here before I can do anything, but it's got to be done in a way that doesn't make him nervous."

Booth was silent for a moment, desperately trying to come up with a good excuse to empty out the place, something that wouldn't be too obvious. When the idea finally came to him, he could only pray that it would be good enough.

"Here, as soon as you talk to Hacker, come back and make an announcement that they've just found some evidence outside the building that needs to be collected and catalogued before it gets too dark. Tracks, casings, anything; breadcrumbs, for all I care. Tell everyone that they can leave most of their equipment up here, because they'll all be back in less than an hour. And you, Rodriguez" he said, facing the agent who'd been quietly listening to the ongoing conversation all along, "when we're done here, you go in there right away and casually mention near the suspect how the FBI is bringing up a lot more techs into the room once the bigger lights arrive, so people can't spread out too much. Throw in something about a bunch of news crews being on their way because they got wind that we found something, and what a pain in the ass those journalists are. Agent Rodriguez, you did a good job before-I need you to pull another one off again."

"No problem sir."

"Hopefully, our guy will buy all this crap and he'll hold out a little longer in order to get a bigger bang for his buck. More people, more press. Remember not to mention my name, either one of you. Oh, by the way" Booth added belatedly, addressing Gustavson, "have the explosives squad-no identifying marks-go through the other floors to make sure there aren't any more 'surprises'."

"And if he figures out what we're doing?"

"Then we're all screwed," Booth answered simply.

Gustavson's eyebrows shot up at the pessimistic comment. "What about you?" he asked. "They might want you downstairs for debriefing and to help plot out a strategy."

"No; no way-I'm not leaving" Booth said in a determined voice that brooked no argument. "Not until every last damn person is out; that's just how it goes. Besides," he said, carefully peering into the room and spotting Sweets' tall, lanky figure, "I might have an ace up my sleeve."

"Anything else you need me to do, Booth?"

"Yeah, there is. The minute you leave, I'm gonna figure out a way to get Bones out of here. And when I do, Rodriguez," he said, turning to his subordinate, "you make an excuse about how you're needed downstairs and you go with her. I want to make sure she gets out and doesn't come back in-you got that?" he asked in a pleading tone, looking at the two men in front of him. "I don't care what you have to do to keep her away-just do it."

"Don't worry; she won't be back, you have my word," Gustavson answered solemnly. The agent walked off, and then he stopped and looked over his shoulder at Booth.

"Good luck, Booth-and be careful."

_Good luck. _Yeah, good luck alright-and a frickin' miracle.

"Thanks."


	17. Unsaid

"You ready?" Booth asked Rodriguez. "Not too loud, just nice and easy. Mill around a bit and then come back out whenever you see Dr. Brennan leave."

"Sir, I'm as ready as I'll ever be. I did improv in college; I can work a crowd" the young man replied full of adrenaline. After rubbing his hands together, he relaxed his shoulders and casually ambled back into the room while Booth sidled up to the threshold, straining to hear.

As he listened, he pulled out his phone and looked up Angela's number. He'd let Rodriguez do his thing before he called.

"Hey guys," he heard his subordinate say in a laid back, street-wise way, "don't spread out so much-we're expecting a lot more company in a couple of minutes. They're just waiting for the floodlights to get here before they send in the rest of the technical team. So don't hog up all the room-you listening?"

_Don't push it, Rodriguez-keep it low key. Don't forget about the press…_

"Can you believe it?" the agent continued, speaking in a confidential tone to someone Booth trusted was near the killer, "the news people got wind that something's going on and they're already on the way here. Some smart ass from one of these other yahoo agencies must have tipped them off. Working around a bunch of news vans and camera's, man, it's always a bitch. I hate those guys-they never get anything right."

_That's it-that's it; no more, kid. _Booth had unconsciously been holding his breath throughout the performance, only letting it out in a long, low whistle of relief when he realized Rodriguez was done.

_Nice. _Once again, the kid had measured up.

He stepped back into the darkness of the hallway and immediately dialed Angela's number.

"Dammit," he muttered angrily, barely holding off the temptation to fling the damn phone against the wall. There was no reception-nothing. Of course there wouldn't be-the place was built like Fort Knox. With absolutely no time to spare, he quickly canvassed the area around him for an alternate location. Catching sight of another room nearby, he sprinted inside, hoping against hope for a window.

Bingo; he held the phone up to it as close as he could get it and redialed.

One, two, three rings-and no answer. He began to despair about ever reaching Angela in time, when her frayed voice came on the line.

"So sorry Booth; I just got here. I'm sure Hodgins told you what happened. I'm coming up right away…"

"No, don't; don't come in" he said, more harshly than he intended. "Just stay where you are."

"Why, what's up?"

"I can't tell you right now, but I need you to do me a huge favor. Call Bones and make up some excuse-tell her dad or her brother or whoever is here and wants to say hi. She needs to get out of the building _now_."

"Oh my god, what's wrong?"

"Please Angela," he implored; "just call her and get her to leave right away. I swear, I'm going to do everything I can to get everyone else out-I promise you I won't leave Hodgins behind. Will you call? You know how she is-she won't want to leave once things get started, and it'll end up making my job that much harder. Please?"

"Yes, yes; of course I will" Angela answered in an anguished voice.

"And if you don't get her, keep trying-the reception sucks. Thanks Angela." He hung up before she could ask any more questions, which would unfortunately be answered soon enough, and before he could feel any more of her rising panic over Hodgins. He of all people understood all too well what she was going through-he didn't need another reminder of what they all had to lose if something went wrong.

Now, all that was left was the waiting-and the worrying.

He was right back at his old spot by the door, expecting to hear the familiar ringtone of Bones' phone, but it didn't come. He looked in cautiously and was appalled to see that she was no longer by the windows with Cam and Hodgins. Where the hell had she gone?

So he took a risk; one of those very same, unacceptable risks he had sworn earlier that he wouldn't take on her behalf no matter what. Because regardless of what his brain kept telling him, when it came to her, his heart would always be in the driver's seat. He crept in silently, concealing himself behind a column where the killer would hopefully fail to spot him. It was then that he heard her voice, although he couldn't see her. She was talking to someone, asking questions about what their particular job entailed.

The answer she got chilled him through and through-he was positive she was talking to the killer.

"Oh, I do a lot of different things for the County, m'am. How about you?" the man asked, quickly to dodging her questions. "You FBI too? I feel like I know you from somewhere. Maybe we've worked together on this case before" he told her, in that same insistent voice from this morning.

_Bull s-_, Booth thought with increasing agitation; Bones had never been at any of the killer's previous crime scenes. He couldn't know her. What could possibly be his interest in her? A fleeting vision of the dead policewoman swam before his eyes.

"I'm a consultant for the FBI," Brennan replied formally. "I'm a forensic anthropologist, but I'm not working on this case at the moment, so I doubt we've met before. I'm also a best-selling author of a series of crime novels. The editors insist on putting my picture on the back of every book; perhaps that's why you believe you recognize me."

"Oh, sure; that makes sense, come to think of it. I read lots of stuff like that. You can always learn something new. So you here doing research for one of your books, or what?"

"I'm just here with my partner, purely in an observational capacity."

_Please, Bones, whatever you do, don't give him my name…_

Why the f- was he chatting her up so much, asking so many questions? Why the fixation? It made him want to grab the guy and choke the living daylights out of the creep, sensing him so close to her.

"So what's your name? I'll have to go home and check my books; I think I might have at least one of them."

"It's Dr. Brennan; Dr. Temperance Brennan." Booth could hear the mounting impatience in her voice; Bones was never one for small-talk, particularly with strangers.

"What an unusual and beautiful name to have. Temperance…" There was an awkward moment of silence, until the killer's inquiries began all over again. "I see you're expecting?"

"Yes. And what exactly _are_ you doing? I'm not familiar with that evidence-gathering technique" he heard her ask guardedly.

Booth decided he'd heard enough-the situation was rapidly starting to deteriorate. If she made the connection…He looked over to where Cam was working and made a dramatic sign for her to call Brennan over, putting a finger over his lips as he did so. Cam had been a cop, was still a cop at heart; she was as perceptive and as keen as they came, and she had known him long enough for him to trust that she would understand immediately that there was something vitally important on the line.

She discreetly followed his instructions without missing a beat.

"Dr. Brennan," she said waving her co-worker over. "I would really appreciate your opinion about some of this evidence before we bag it."

"I only deal with human remains, Dr. Saroyan, you know that. And there are no deceased persons here."

_Bones, of all the times to get technical…_

"Oh, I feel quite certain that your knowledge would be invaluable to us regardless. Please? I'll be eternally grateful" Cam added with an exaggerated smile.

A maddening silence followed Cam's request; Booth could picture Brennan wrinkling her nose as she debated whether she ought to provide her expertise when it had been so subversively rejected in the not too distant past. But he already knew that she would do it. She walked over to her boss, like the consummate-if cranky at the moment-professional that she was. _Closer to the window, Bones-just a little closer._ As he expected, she didn't seem happy.

Just as she looked like she was going to give her colleagues a lecture on how she couldn't possibly be needed now if she hadn't been needed before, her phone finally rang. Booth was certain that it was one of the most beautiful sounds he'd ever heard; a choir of angels would have absolutely nothing on it.

He tiptoed his way back out, confident that Angela would find a way to do what he had asked of her.

"What?" he heard Bones say in an exasperated tone. "What are they doing here? Children should not be allowed anywhere near this building-it's an active criminal investigation site; they could accidentally contaminate evidence. Besides, the area surrounding the structure is very dangerous. Angela, what were you thinking?"

_She's thinking that she needs to get you out of here because I told her to-just listen to her!_

Angela must have added something more, and then he heard Brennan's hesitant reply.

"I don't know Angela; can't they come by the house later? We're busy right now."

Another pause, which he was sure was followed by a surly expression on Brennan's face. "Very well; I'll see what I can do" she answered grudgingly. He imagined her shaking her head in disbelief at whatever it was that Angela had come up with.

"Where's Booth?" he heard her ask Cam.

_Oh god, please don't have him have heard that…_

He looked back in, but so far everything seemed normal. He caught a glimpse of Cam duly pointing in his direction. "Hallway, I think. Oh, by the way-don't worry about us, Dr. Brennan. I think we're good with this evidence here. No need for your help anymore."

_Bless you, Cam._

When Bones walked out, he wanted to get on his knees and thank everyone from the Virgin Mary down to each and every last saint he had ever been made to recite.

She was out of that damn powder keg, and just that much closer to safety.

"I can't believe this," Brennan chuffed. "Angela allowed Russ access to the site, and now he's right outside waiting for me _with_ the girls. She thought it would be a great opportunity for them to see me out in the field. I don't know what was going through her mind-it was a very irresponsible thing to do. The area surrounding the building is littered with hazardous debris."

"Give Angela a break; she's just being nice, Bones. What else did she say?"

"Apparently, Russ was passing through DC with the girls on his way to Florida, and they insisted that he stop by the lab so they could see me. Since I wasn't there, Angela let them tag along with her and had them cleared at the safety checkpoint. I suggested meeting them at our house later, but Russ told Angela he can't wait or they'll be late for their hotel reservations. I don't know why he wouldn't have called me first."

"You know that crazy brother of yours" Booth chirped nervously. "Besides, he probably tried, but you probably couldn't get his call in here."

"It's all very disconcerting. Cam just requested my assistance with some evidence. I don't want to hurt Russ's or the girls' feelings, but I don't believe that I can go see them at this moment."

"What, and let those two cute little nieces of ours down, and one of them always so sick? You can't disappoint them like that, Bones; they made a detour just to see their auntie Bones. Come on, go, it won't take that long-and Cam just told you she didn't need you that bad."

He tried sounding like everything was perfectly normal, but she cocked her head in his direction, the same way she always did when she was looking at something that she determined warranted further study. He was convinced she was examining his body language for clues, because maybe she thought that he was lying to her again-which of course, he was. He sure wished this wouldn't be one of those times when her iffy people reading skills actually worked.

Christ; he should have never mentioned that he had overheard what Cam had told her-why would he have been listening in on their conversation? It was only natural that the comment had made her suspicious. It had been a stupid, rookie mistake.

He toned down the act. "Look, I'm almost done here. Go see Russ and those girls right away and tell them all hi for me, and I'll meet you down by the car in a couple of minutes-maybe I'll catch them. We're both tired, and you've been on your feet all day; I'm sure Cam can show you whatever it was she wanted your input on back at the lab in the morning-or she can send you a picture when we're at home. There's really nothing else left for me to do here and Sweets promised to call if there's any new developments. Just give me a couple extra minutes to make sure that everything's in order before I leave. Okay?"

Her expression was enigmatic as she continued to inspect him, and he found himself smiling back cheerfully, hoping to throw her for a loop.

"Come on, go. I'll make you that tofu stuff you like on the grill; I'll even eat it with you, if that makes you happy. Yes?"

"Alright," she replied haltingly. "But you'll be down soon, right?"

"I promise." He wanted to kiss her like he'd never kissed her before, to hold her for a long, long time, because he might never get the chance to do either of those things ever again. He wanted to tell her to take care of their baby and to look after Parker, to make sure that his kids didn't forget about their dad or how much he loved them, even the daughter he'd never laid eyes on except through a grainy ultrasound image. But he knew he didn't really need to spell any of that out for her, because he was certain she would do those things on his behalf regardless, if it happened that he didn't make it out of this hellhole alive.

Mostly though, he wanted to tell her how much he loved her. She had changed his life in ways he couldn't begin to list, kept changing it for the better to this very day; but in the final count, his "I love you" stayed on the tip of his tongue, unsaid. He honestly didn't think he could utter those words without her knowing just how wrong everything really was, and how big of a lie he had just told her.

He wouldn't be going home with her anytime soon, if at all.

"Hey, Rodriguez," he said with a forced look of surprise when the agent walked in on them as arranged. "Here, take these notes with you and give them to Hacker. And lookee here, Dr. Brennan is leaving too, so you can make sure she finds her way out. We should have left a trail of crumbs when we came in, huh?"

"Sure sir, I'll show her out."

She walked off with her escort, still looking uncertain about what it was that had just transpired between the two of them. He knew she could feel how tense he was underneath all that easy talk, they had been together for so long. She just hadn't had the opportunity to decipher what it all meant-and he wanted her out of the way before she could. Booth watched her leave with a heavy heart, as heavy as the combined weight of all the souls still working side by side with the killer just feet away. Getting each and every one of them out alive had once again become his sole priority now that she was gone, regardless of at what cost it came.

As he watched her leave, he was aware that a big part of who he was had left with her-the best part. But she was going to be safe now, and that was all that mattered.

_Where the devil was Gustavson?_ Booth wondered with impatience, unwittingly chewing on one of his fingernails. Now that the two figures were finally out of sight, his worries about the current situation they were all facing returned in full force. One more minute, and he would have to find someone else to make their agreed-upon announcement.

And then he it suddenly dawned on him that he had forgotten all about Sweets' part in this little plan of his-he needed to get a hold of Sweets before they could move on to anything else. Booth returned to the window where he had called Angela before and dialed Sweets' number, but just like Bones before him, his partner apparently wasn't anywhere near where his phone could get reception-the call failed. Whispering expletives to himself, he went back to his old spot in the hallway, shoulders slumped.

He rubbed his eyes in frustration; why couldn't things go his way with even the smallest amount of ease just once today?

"What's going on, big guy?"

Cam was staring right at him, with a puzzled look in her eyes. "What was that all about with Dr. Brennan and the weird signals?"

"Cam," he said, shaking his head, "I don't have time to explain right now, but in a couple of minutes an agent from the Bureau is going to announce that some evidence was discovered outside the building that needs to be collected before it gets too dark. When that happens, don't waste time taking any of your big stuff with you-just calmly grab Hodgins and go. No questions, no arguments; just go and get out of the building as soon as you can."

"Done," she answered with a nod, knowing better than to ask for reasons when he was in his FBI mode. If he said they had to leave, then they _had_ to leave-his word was good enough for her. She would just have to crack the whip and make sure that Hodgins didn't get all adversarial and mulish about leaving their work behind when their marching orders came.

"Get me Sweets when you go back in, without mentioning my name, okay? And please, you and Angela, you help take care of Bones and our baby if things don't go so good today. She looks so damn strong and she's so proud, but…" His voice caught and he stopped abruptly.

Cam's eyes immediately brightened with tears as she came to a full realization of just how bad the situation must actually be for him to be asking that of her, but she managed to maintain her composure. They were both in law enforcement and just as Booth expected, she totally got the picture of what they might be up against even without the details, and how they both had to act in order to have a chance at survival. She dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve.

"We won't have to do that," Cam answered tremulously, "because whatever is going on will turn out fine and you'll be there to take care of them. But just to make you happy and because I know what a pain in the ass you are when it comes to watching over Dr. Brennan and your family, done on that last request too."

He knew it wasn't enough, but he hoped that his smile to one of his oldest, best friends would at least in part convey the full extent of his gratitude, along with all the affection and respect he'd always had for her. She smiled back weakly, wordlessly reaching out for his hand and squeezing it softly for a few seconds.

They had both run out of things to say, just as they were quickly running out of time.

After bravely suppressing one final sniffle, Cam turned away and embarked on her mission to find Sweets.


	18. Facing the Abyss

As soon as Brennan emerged with Agent Rodriguez from the pitch-black corridors of the warehouse, she threw a protective hand over her eyes to shield them from the intense daytime glare. Even the powerful circle of light cast by Rodriguez's flashlight was no match for the sun's afternoon rays, and the sudden change in brightness made it difficult to see. Squinting painfully, she perused the area marked off for official vehicles expecting to see Russ's familiar silver compact, but instead saw only Angela's minivan, with her friend standing alone beside it. Angela's arms were crossed tightly in a defensive stance that was impossible to misinterpret, and Brennan's guard immediately went up.

She walked towards her, under Rodriguez's watchful gaze.

"Where's Russ?" she asked. "I thought his car would be parked right alongside yours."

Angela looked…perturbed; it was the only adjective that seemed to fit.

"One of the girls had to go to the bathroom," she said with a half-hearted smile, "so he took both of them to the diner at the end of the street; he'll be back any minute now."

If she hadn't quite seen through Booth's deception earlier, she certainly had Angela pegged. Her friend was trying hard to project an image of carefree nonchalance, but underneath, the lying showed.

"Russ was never here, was he?"

A guilt ridden look gave the artist away. "No sweetie" she finally admitted; "he wasn't."

"So why did you call me and tell me to come down? It was Booth wasn't it?" Brennan asked bluntly.

Angela nodded.

"Why? Why would he do this to me? I don't understand," she continued, incredulous. "I thought we were done with the subterfuge, that we had resolved all the issues surrounding my presence at crime scenes. He lied to me; Booth lied to me again, and he got you to lie for him as well. Why?"

Angela swallowed apprehensivel, unsure about how much of what she knew she ought to divulge. As much as she wanted to share her own worries with someone, she was also determined to keep her friend calm, and more importantly, safe.

Her continuing silence wouldn't have made a difference; the instant that Brennan detected the marks of a stalling tactic in progress, all sorts of red flags went up in her head. She left Angela's side without uttering a single word and walked right back to the spot in the building from where she had just come out of, determined to get an explanation from her partner for his unacceptable behavior. Two people; he had already involved two people in his schemes, including her best friend, and it just couldn't go on. No relationship was worth this amount of trouble.

She didn't get very far. Rodriguez intercepted her just feet from the doorway, physically barring the entrance to the warehouse.

"I'm sorry ma'am; no one is allowed back in there."

"I have to go back up; my partner's in there. I need to speak to him." She found the pitch of her voice rising, as the warning signs became harder to ignore.

"Dr. Brennan, Agent Booth specifically ordered me to keep you out-me and Gustavson; we gave him our word. There's a…sensitive situation going on up there right now."

Her ire bled through in a flurry of words. "I need to know what's happening; if there's some sort of emergency, then why aren't the rest of the people coming out?"

"I'm really not at liberty to say, ma'am. I've got strict orders to keep this information completely under wraps. I'm sorry."

She fixed the young agent with a frigid stare, before heading towards Angela once again.

"I'm going to find out what's going on one way or another," she told her flatly. "I would appreciate your help, Angela-please. What did Booth tell you?"

"Don't be mad at him, Brennan; I think he was just trying to protect you."

"I don't _need_ any more protecting-by anyone, including you," she argued angrily. "What I need is the truth."

She was incensed at Booth-felt she had every right to be, and this time, her forgiveness would come at a much higher price than it had before, if indeed it came at all. "Please, Angela," she asked once again.

When she realized the extent of her friend's agitation, Angela caved. This anxiety couldn't be good for her or the baby. Brennan hated uncertainty; maybe in her case, knowing the facts was better than remaining in ignorance.

"He wanted you out of there because he figured you wouldn't leave on your own if you found out-he wouldn't say anything else. All I know is that something really bad must be happening or is just about to happen. No one around here will give me any information" she said despairingly. "Just before you came out, all these people appeared out of nowhere and went inside the central command van, and they sent in the bomb squad with their dogs through a side entrance about ten minutes ago. It looks really bad; I'm scared, Brennan," her friend confided, almost in tears.

"Have you spoken to anyone from the FBI?"

"I told you-they won't talk to me. No one will."

"They'll talk to me. They have to," Brennan declared.

She marched off to the mobile command station, where she knew Andrew Hacker would most likely be. A million ugly things were going through her head, but she brushed her fears aside; it was useless to worry at this juncture, when she had no idea what it was that she had to worry about. Maybe Angela was wrong; maybe the actual situation wasn't all that dire, even when all the evidence within their reach was pointing towards that very unhappy possibility. After all, she had just been up there with Booth, and nothing had seemed out of order. If this was a true emergency, he would have forced everyone out, not just her. Wouldn't he?

She approached the large black vehicle, looking for the one person she was certain would come through with an answer. She was stopped by one of the agents guarding the doorway, but she pushed right past him, challenging him with a frown to keep her from going in. The man flinched and gave way almost immediately after getting a good look at the fierce resolution stamped all over her face. There was no messing with Dr. Brennan, under any circumstance; every agent in the Bureau worth his salt knew that.

The van was crowded and it took Brennan a minute to locate Hacker. He stood near the back, surrounded by several people dressed as forensic technicians. She didn't recognize any of them; judging by their deportment, she determined that they must all be undercover FBI agents in the act of being briefed.

Hacker was speaking on his cell phone as the agents circling around him stood by in absolute silence and she took the opportunity to wind her way closer to the group, unnoticed.

"Okay" she heard him say; "that's _definitely_ not good. Go ahead and send Cooper up then stat, to be sure. He won't be able to wear any obvious protective gear; he can only take in what he absolutely needs-maybe a flak jacket underneath his jumpsuit and some goggles; a small briefcase if he can't carry all his tools on him. Booth'll brief him when he gets there." He put his phone away and turned to his crew. "You can all go up now; I think it's just what we were afraid of. Follow Booth's instructions when you get there-he'll be waiting for you outside, in the hallway."

As soon as the agents began filing out, she stepped forward.

"Andrew, what's wrong?"

"Temperance" he said, taken aback by her presence in the trailer. "I…um…it's actually probably for the best if you don't know."

Best for whom, she wondered bitterly; she'd had more than enough of this ongoing paternalistic behavior. Fed up with all the people bent on manipulating her, on trying to keep her inside some sort of protective bubble, she finally lashed out. "I have the _right_ to know" she stated forcefully. "I'm Booth's partner, as well as his mate-_not_ an adolescent that needs looking after. You're well aware of that, so stop trying to shield me from the facts."

Hacker remained silent.

"Andrew, I'm going to find out eventually, and in the meantime, you might be foregoing some valuable assistance from me and the rest of the Jeffersonian team with whatever the situation entails."

And she _would_ find out, she swore to herself, even if she had to harass every agent within a ten kilometer radius. Booth was her business, and if there was anything she could do to help him, _anything_, she would move heaven and earth to do it. She wouldn't just sit idly by, waiting for the vagaries of chance to run their course in whatever haphazard manner they chose to do it.

Hacker sighed heavily, acknowledging the irrepressible force of nature that he was up against. It was dumb to keep playing this little game of hide and seek with her, he conceded, and she might be right; maybe her insights would come in handy-if not now, then somewhere down the line.

"Alright, but you have to promise me you'll stay calm, and you won't try to do anything unreasonable," he warned. "Booth figured out that our sniper is up on that fourth floor with the rest of the forensic staff, disguised as one of the lab people. He talked to the same man this morning in the mall-the guy was in some sort of medical uniform at the time."

"And the bomb squad?" she asked, already dreading the answer.

"The suspect was handling some wires when Booth spotted him, and Booth figured that the room might be rigged with explosives. Without knowing where the detonator is, no one can touch the killer in case it's on him and it goes off accidentally. We also can't just evacuate our team in a mad rush, because that might make him suspicious and cause him to react right away. Booth's got a plan, and frankly, I can't come up with anything better myself and neither can anyone else, so that's what we're going with for the moment."

"That's all the information you have?" It didn't seem nearly sufficient.

"For now. The good news is that the bomb squad just finished a preliminary search of the premises and so far hasn't found any sign of explosives on the other floors."

"And the bad?"

"The dogs confirmed Booth's hunch; there are traces of combustible materials on the stairs leading up to the fourth floor."

"What exactly _is_ Booth's plan?"

Hacker's cheeks puffed out as he looked up for inspiration. "In a nutshell, one of our agents is getting ready to announce that we need the help of the lab staff down here for a little while, and that when they're done, they're all going back in, with even more help and some heavy-duty news coverage. It's our hope that our guy will be tempted to postpone his plan just long enough to buy us some time to get everyone out. We'll leave a few of our own agents in the room as decoys so the place doesn't suddenly look too empty while our demo expert verifies whether there's a real bomb in there or not."

Brennan didn't understand how the killer could possibly be made to ignore the fact that someone was poking around his explosives.

"Won't he notice what's going on? It seems like a huge risk to take," she stated.

Hacker shrugged. "Well, to be honest, that part of the plan I'm not all that clear on, but I'm sure Booth's thought of all that and he's got it covered."

"And Booth?" The knot in the pit of her stomach was tightening fast; she knew her mate all too well, just like he knew her, and she was certain she already had the answer to that question.

"He's staying put," Hacker replied truthfully. "I'm so sorry, Tempe. He's leading the operation, and unfortunately, he's without question the best man for the job. I think it's advisable for you to go home for now-I'll make sure one of my people keeps you posted on a regular basis. In your condition, the stress, l…"

"I'm not leaving Booth" she declared, completely flabbergasted by the suggestion that she abandon her partner when his life was in danger. "Not until I see him walk out of that building."

Hacker held her gently by the shoulders. "Tempe, please don't do anything foolish" he asked of her in a serious tone. "You're expecting-I don't want something unfortunate to happen to you or the baby. Besides the fact that I have a great deal of personal regard for you, Booth would kill me. It's not something I'm looking forward to."

If she didn't kill Booth first. She had a sudden urge to both laugh and cry at the flagrantly inappropriate thought.

"I'll stay out of your way," Brennan grudgingly agreed, "but I'm not leaving the premises, and that decision is not only final, it's also beyond discussion. If you decide that you want my assistance after all, or access to the Jeffersonian's many resources, you'll find me on the south side of the building waiting with Angela in her car."

"At least wait with her at one of the support centers that we've set up on the outskirts of the complex; they're farther away from the building, just in case…well, you know. You'll both be safer there."

She looked out of the van's window, lost in thought.

"I'll go ahead and follow your recommendation," she told him after a brief pause, "but I expect to be notified if anything changes, or if you come up with any additional information that we might be able to provide some help with. You owe that to me as a friend and a colleague, but you especially owe it to Booth."

As Hacker was nodding his assent his eyes abruptly flew past her, as he caught sight of a waving hand and an earnest face in the background.

"I'm sorry, Tempe. I have to go. Try not to worry too much; I'm sure at the end of the day, everything will be fine. Booth's the best guy we have at the Bureau, especially when it comes to touch-and-go situations like this one. I have faith that he can pull it off."

Faith-she had faith in Booth, and in very little else; certainly none in the vague wishes about the conflict's bloodless resolution that Hacker was so easily able to make himself believe would come true. Those wishes weren't nearly enough to lessen her fears for the man she loved beyond the realm of reason. Her mind went back to what Hacker had said earlier.

_Just in case…_

What if there really _was_ a 'just in case' looming in their horizon? With Hacker's offhand remark, the great unknown from just minutes ago had swiftly and without warning morphed into the terrible known, a beast so immense and so frightful, that a mere mention of its name gave rise to a sense of uncontrollable panic in her. Sheer, primal, gut-wrenching panic, like she'd never experienced before. The monster had haunted her dreams since her parents' disappearance, but she had noticed that it had become much more bold recently, creeping ever closer to the edge of her conscious mind with every new day that she and Booth spent together. But in spite of its ever-present whispers, she had somehow managed to keep it from intruding into her waking thoughts.

This no longer held true.

Death, departure, absence, loss.

Whatever guise the creature came in, if it finally chose to manifest itself in the flesh today, it would end up leaving her in a completely different world than the one that she had finally gathered the courage to inhabit: alone, without Booth.

It was a version of the future too unspeakably cold and barren to contemplate, even for a second.


	19. Towers of Gold

She walked back to Angela, lost in a haze of jumbled thoughts. The possibility that something terrible was going on had clearly been there all along-she just hadn't wanted to acknowledge it without looking at all the evidence first.

"What happened? Did they tell you anything?" Angela asked.

Just as her friend had done before, Brennan was now struggling with how much of the bad news she should share. But she firmly believed in the value of honesty, at least most of the time, because people had the right to have all the facts at their disposal in order to prepare themselves emotionally for every possible outcome. She knew that Booth would probably disapprove.

"I spoke to Andrew; he confirmed your suspicions. They've discovered traces of explosives leading up to the fourth floor; the bulk of it is probably housed in the space where the evidence left behind by the killer is being examined. Booth believes there's a bomb hidden somewhere in the room."

"Oh my God; then why aren't the people out of there? What are they waiting for?" Angela cried. "Are they afraid to trip something on the way out?"

If it were only as simple as that; the reality was going to give Angela a whole lot more to worry about.

"The killer's in there" Brennan said without a trace of emotion, because ever since she had left the command center, all she felt was a pervasive sense of numbness in her heart and in her mind. It was as if her nervous system had completely shut down, refusing to accept any more stimuli. "Booth recognized him; the man was at the mall this morning attending to one of the bystanders disguised as some sort of medical worker. The FBI is afraid that if the premises are evacuated too suddenly or too conspicuously, he'll notice and set off the explosives before the people are able to leave."

She had finally found the courage to voice the unthinkable; unfortunately, saying the words out loud only made them all the more real.

When she left Hacker, Brennan had secretly held out a hope that telling someone would make her feel better, but she found that the burden she was carrying wasn't at all lessened with the disclosure. If anything, it was increased ten-fold when she saw the bereft expression that settled on Angela's face.

"Hodgins," Angela whispered to herself in disbelief. Her eyes met Brennan's. "Hodgins," she repeated; "and Cam, Booth, Sweets…"

"Hacker asked us to go to one of the support stations the FBI has set up outside the immediate zone of danger. I told him we would do that."

"The zone of danger? What does he mean by that mean?"

"In the event there's an explosion."

"I cannot believe this" Angela said, her mouth hanging open in shock. "It all seemed so routine, just a normal day at the job, and now, Michael might never see his father again."

Brennan awkwardly placed a hand on Angela's arm; she knew she wasn't any good at this, at physically conveying to people how much she cared about them and how much it distressed her to see their suffering. It was at times like these that she truly regretted the fact that she couldn't be more like everyone else, that she couldn't give her support in a way that could be helpful to the average person. Booth was the expert at that type of stuff-always had been-but her meagre offering would have to do. She had to keep Angela from dwelling on the worst possibly scenario-for both their sakes. She needed Angela's strength, just as much as her friend needed hers. They had to stay focused in order to be of any help, and that required holding onto a reservoir of optimism, no matter how small.

"Booth suggested a course of action which Andrew has already approved. We should know very shortly whether it'll work. It sounded very reasonable; the probabilities…"

"Brennan," Angela interrupted; "I don't want to sound rude, but I don't want to hear about probabilities; I really don't. I just want Jack and the rest of them out of there now."

"I'm sorry, Angela," Brennan replied contritely. "You know I tend to rely on reason and logic for comfort. They're what always used to sustain me in times of stress, especially before Booth and I became partners. I tend to forget that most people don't get much reassurance from those intangible concepts. Since Booth isn't here with me now, I suppose I'm reverting to my old habits. Would it help if I said that the plan was very good?"

"Yes sweetie; that helps. It's just that Hodgins…you don't know how wrecked he was after the Gravedigger ordeal. The nightmares, the fits of anger, the paranoia. He woke up in a cold sweat for weeks after you were rescued. He actually wanted to kill Taffet during the trial for what she put you both through. You at least know that Booth has experience with these kinds of emergencies and that he'll keep his cool no matter what. But Hodgins, if he accidentally finds out, I'm not sure how he'll react."

"Angela," Brennan said kindly, "I was there, underground in that car with Hodgins for hours; even suffering from severe shock and a great deal of blood loss, he showed remarkable courage and determination. If it wasn't for his quick thinking and his composure, we wouldn't have gotten out of that gravel pit alive. I think that in the unlikely event that he finds out what's going on, he'll act in exactly the correct manner, just like he did back then."

Angela smiled through her tears, leaning over and warmly embracing her friend in a bear hug.

"_That_ definitely helped. So what's the timeline on this plan of Booth's?"

"It's being put in motion right now" Brennan replied, staring absently at the building in front of her. The sunset had turned the tawny bricks to a mellow shade of gold, highlighting all the intricate details of the stonework, details that had been lost to the eye under the harsh light of midday. She observed that the structure had been erected with a surprising attention to detail and with an old-world craftsmanship that you rarely saw anymore in newer construction. Czech or German bricklayers straight out of their former homelands had most likely been responsible for the meticulous handiwork.

She guessed that to the casual observer, the empty warehouse would almost certainly have appeared beautiful, even serene, especially as the mystery-laden hours of nighttime approached. A glowing fairy tale castle, set against a darkening azure sky. All it needed were colorful banners and a lovely young princess waving her handkerchief at the crowd to complete the mythical look. She was certain that under any other circumstance, the artist in Angela would have been waxing poetic about the romance inherent in the almost bucolic scene before them.

Never judge a book by its cover, her mother had often said to her when she was a child.

No one could guess from taking in the innocuous exterior the carnage that had been housed inside for years, nor the kinds of potentially life-ending decisions that were being made in its cold halls right now, as she and Angela stood helplessly by.

She thought of Booth; of how he had looked the very last time she saw him, when he had insisted ever so cagily that she go outside and wait for him. Strong, confident, but always so gentle and affectionate when it came to dealing with her. How had she not seen the urgency in his eyes, felt the desperation behind his request? She saw them clearly now-when it was far too late. Too late to tell him that she wasn't mad because he was putting her first, like he always did. Too late to tell him how much he meant to her, always, but now more than ever.

Fairy tales. Whatever had made her think of _those_ in the first place? If this was indeed a fairy tale, it was one in the most sinister vein, the type that no one told their kids anymore for fear of giving them nightmares. Children in ovens, maidens drowning in wells, battles ending with the betrayal and death of the good and noble king.

But unlike in those bygone childhood stories, the fire-breathing dragon that her brave knight had to fight lived not outside the castle walls, but dwelled right within the very heart of them, and the beast was only just beginning to stir.

She couldn't cling to her objectivity any longer. She was terrified and in danger of losing all hope, and for once she was willing to admit her fears openly to herself, if to no one else.

Despite her spiraling grief, Brennan resorted once again to reciting what had become her own personal mantra since she found out the truth about what was going on; an incantation that would have to carry her through the next several hours-it was all she had left.

"I have faith in Booth" she said softly to Angela, out of nowhere, her eyes still glued to a certain set of windows on the fourth floor. "I have faith in Booth."


	20. Knights of the Round Table

While he waited for Sweets to show up, a tapping foot the only sign of the pent-up energy he was barely keeping in check, Booth thought of the brutal emotional toll it took on a person to be the one in charge, particularly if that person had a conscience. Yeah, he was used to the responsibility–but familiarity with his duties never made things any easier.

It sure was lonely at the top.

Here he was about to ask his junior partner, a man who occasionally still came across as a dorky teenager rather than a capable adult, who had completed his preliminary training and received his badge only weeks ago, to put his life on the line for a plan that had a 50/50 chance of not working. That is, if the odds were even that favorable. It was of course what was routinely expected of them as officers of the law-the potential sacrifice of the one for the greater good. Soldiers for civilians. Had Sweets ever really seriously considered all this when he took his FBI oath? How quickly the hard decisions would come? The hidden potential in every stand-off for killing or being killed?

Booth knew the initial rush that came with having a gun issued to you; he'd felt it himself years ago, that strapping one on somehow made you more of a man. Until the impossible choices came, and you realized that instead of giving you a thing of value, that badge and gun often took away something instead-a portion of your soul, of your humanity. Sweets was still enjoying that initial high, basking in the glamour of finally being a full-fledged agent, loving the envious looks from the long list of rejected candidates, the adulation from his girlfriend and from the most recent recruits that now looked up to him as a role model.

He'd be coming down real fast from that buzz today.

What made this decision even harder for Booth was that Sweets often felt more like his own brother than Jared ever did. Annoying, clinging, immature, yes-plenty of that to go around. And Sweets had the uncanny ability to get under his skin like no one else could-except maybe for Bones. But he was also insightful, caring and loyal, enough that Booth had finally allowed him to be his backup, admittedly after some initial doubts. It essentially meant trusting Sweets with his life-and that was exactly what he was going to do today, if Sweets agreed to his proposal. It's more responsibility than he would ever trust Jared with. In fact, he was certain his younger partner would do things for him without being asked that Jared would only do under duress, if at all. If only well-behaved, focused, nerdy Sweets had been his real brother, how many headaches would that had saved him and Pops. Well, we all had to make do with the hand we'd been dealt.

The point was, he didn't want to endanger his friend's life-certainly not like this, when there were so many unknown variables to contend with. Without question, he _hated_ doing it. Booth would never tell him in so many words, but he had grown to have a real fondness and a great deal of respect for Sweets. And Sweets' unmistakable hero-worship of Booth made what he was going to ask of him in the coming minutes even more troubling. Because Sweets counted on him to always do the right thing, counted on his judgment, and Booth knew in his naive subordinate's eyes he could do no wrong-and in this case, things could go very wrong very quickly. Sweets seemed so able and savvy at times, but in actuality, he had very little experience with the outside world. Jesus, even a veteran of the Bureau would be having a tough time with this one. But maybe none of that really mattered: skill, smarts, experience. When push came to shove, it probably all came down to luck anyway.

If there was any other way to get those people out safely, he wouldn't dream of asking. He wasn't used to having other people do his dirty work for him; he'd never had to put anyone in the position of doing something he wouldn't do himself. Couldn't, in this case, because the killer knew him. That fact didn't make the decision to pick Sweets as his go-to man any less upsetting.

He _would_ go with Sweets, because other than Bones' insanely annoying intern Daisy Wick, his junior partner was the most distracting person he knew. And distractions weren't just the appetizer portion of this meal-they were the main course. Without them, Cooper wouldn't be able to work his magic unnoticed in the alcove, and he wouldn't be able to sneak in and position himself in a place where he could take the suspect out once all those people were out of harm's way.

He could only hope that if Sweets chose to take on the job, he would be talkative enough, engaging enough for the rest of them to be able to do what they had to do. And more importantly, lucky enough. And he sincerely wished Sweets wouldn't get hurt in the process.

"Booth?" Sweets asked, surprised to find his mentor standing alone in the dark. "Why are you out here? Dr. Saroyan said Dr. Brennan wanted to talk to me."

Booth pulled Sweets silently into the next room in one fluid motion. Once there, Booth's recap was brief, but he was sure he got his point across; the incredulous look that crossed his partner's face told him that he had Sweets' full, undivided attention by the time he was done.

"And you're positive about him?" Sweets asked, trying to make sense of the mind-boggling news.

"Yes-I'm telling you, we spoke to him this morning. Actually, _I_ spoke to him, although you met him briefly."

"The nervous guy. I wouldn't have remembered if you hadn't said anything."

"Well, he either doesn't remember you, or decided you haven't figured him out. In any case, they both work."

"They both work? What works?"

Sweets' pulse quickened invountarily when Booth stalled on giving him an answer-things didn't look at all good. "Who's going to run interference while you guys are in there?" he asked suspiciously.

Still tight-lipped, Booth looked pointedly at Sweets.

"Oh."

"I'm hoping you can pull out some of your shrinky stuff and use it on him so he doesn't notice Cooper, me and the others going in to deal with this train wreck. It might also buy us the time we need to get everyone else out."

"Wow. That's a huge gamble. You really have that much faith in me?" Sweets asked, flattered by the vote of confidence, but also suddenly feeling slightly faint.

"Yeah, I do" Booth stated unequivocally. "But I also wouldn't ask you to do this if I thought there was any other even remotely functional solution out there. I'm not going to lie to you, our chances here aren't the best. I can't guarantee he won't figure out what we're doing-we've already established he's not stupid. But you're the most capable guy I can think of for the job-you can go on and on about nothing for hours, and we're running out of time."

"Thanks for the compliment" Sweets said with a touch of ambivalence. "I think."

"Listen to me. This has to be done right if it's going to have a prayer to succeed. There's no margin for error. I'm not going to hold it against you or think less of you if you tell me right now that you don't think you can bluff your way through this. We had a similar conversation earlier today about you backing me up-I told you then and I tell you now there's no shame whatsoever in saying no, and you might actually be doing us all a favor by being totally honest with yourself. If you're not one hundred percent sure that you can keep your nerves under control when you're talking to the suspect, or if you feel that you won't be able to keep him interested long enough, then we'll just think of something else. I don't want you to become the afternoon's first victim."

Sweets could see through what Booth was doing; giving him a way of saving face in case he was too afraid to go along with the scheme. But this was it, what he had trained for, and he couldn't let all those innocent people in the room next door down. Hiding behind lame excuses was no way to start out his career as an FBI agent or as Booth's partner. His dignity and his innate concern for the welfare of others wouldn't allow it.

"Not an issue," he said calmly. "Like you said, I'm good at this sort of stuff. I'll just treat it like a game of cat and mouse, and get him to play along."

"This isn't a game, Sweets. It's life or death-and not just for us; for a whole lot of people" Booth warned.

"I know-but if I can reduce the significance of our conversation in my mind, I'll be more relaxed and therefore more likely to be effective at keeping the suspect busy. Making it seem like less of a big deal in my mind actually allows me to concentrate on my verbal strategy more fully."

"Whatever it takes, Sweets; knock yourself out. But you sure you wanna do this? Gustavson can give it a go instead if you're even slightly on the fence about it."

"Booth, I know you're feeling bad about having to assign me this role, but I think we both realize it's the only decent alternative available right now. I signed on for the job, and this is part of the job. Don't worry about me-I can keep my focus. And please," he added gently, because he felt it was important for Booth to hear, "if something does happen to me, try not to feel too guilty about it-no one is making me do this; I'm volunteering. I'd do it no matter who asked. Okay?"

"Okay" Booth said, shaking Sweets' outstretched hand with a firm grip. Two men, originally brought together by happenstance, who had formed the unlikeliest and strongest of bonds over the years; comrades and friends, now having to rely on each other for survival.

They walked back into the hallway side-by-side, and waited there in silence for their reinforcements to arrive.

So he'd gone through with it, Booth thought-asked his junior partner to risk it all, knowing he probably would have too much pride to refuse. A part of Booth wished Sweets had said no, but the other part was as proud as a peacock. Their baby duck was all grown up.

"Sweets, I'm sorry," he finally fessed up, having a hard time looking Sweets in the eye because, even if it was necessary, underneath it all he felt like a traitor and a manipulative bastard for having even made the request. "You're my friend. I…"

Sweets shook his head and smiled.

"No need to say it; I know, and I appreciate your concern for me. But this really is the best way to deal with the situation; I think we're both aware of that. We've run out of viable options. And remember Booth, no guilt, no matter what. I wanted to serve my country a little more proactively than I was doing before, and I'm getting to do just that today; it's an honor, not a burden," Sweets added with conviction. "So, you want me to go in and start working on him now?"

"No-wait until Gustavson and the others show up. When he starts giving his speech, that's when you approach the suspect. Try to keep him from looking at the door. After I sneak in, I'll position myself behind one of the columns in back, so direct his attention as much as you can towards the front of the room, over by the windows. When I get the message from Cooper, I'll send you a text. You look at it, pretend you have to leave, and walk out with the others; don't even think about it-just leave. I'll deal with our guy when the time comes."

"What if the bomb we think is there isn't his only weapon; what if he has a gun or maybe more explosives on him?" Sweets asked.

"That's my problem to deal with."

Before Sweets could object to that part of Booth's plan, they heard the soft footfall of people on the stairs; the replacement 'victims' were here. All, save for Gustavson, dressed in the standard dark uniforms of the FBI's forensic unit.

There were about 15 men and women in all. Booth recognized several in the crew, including Rodriguez-they were a good bunch, the whole lot of them. But all it took was one glance to determine that there were way too many bodies; too much wiggle room for mistakes. The point of the exercise was to minimize the loss of life, not add to it. Some of the agents would have to wait outside and lead the civilians to safety while the rest went in.

Picking and choosing who would remain in the trenches and who would go to the front lines, perhaps coming back home only as a corpse in a body bag; it was probably the worst part of his job, one of the many worries that often kept him awake at night, a restless wanderer in his own home while the rest of the world was happily dreaming its cares away. That specific task sucked as much now as it had when he'd been in the army. Whoever was under his command and didn't make it back at the end of a mission always stayed with him in one form or another-he already knew that from past experience-and would probably stay with him until he himself met his maker: the boyish, earnest Teddy Parker, sweet and funny Madeline "Mads" Smith, eager to please Ke'won Jones-they were the names of but a few of the fallen. But there were others on that list that followed him around with just as much persistence as those three. He might not have pulled the trigger or set off the IEDs that cut their lives short, but he felt the weight of their deaths nevertheless, especially on those evenings when he was feeling more down and out than usual. Now that Bones was with him, it was easier to find his way back to the bedroom, to her warmth and to her soft voice calling his name. "Come back to bed, Booth" she would whisper groggily whenever he was gone too long, sometimes going as far as getting up from under the covers and hunting for him from room to room until she found him. Bones was the beacon that kept him grounded and always brought him back to the present. But if something happened to Sweets today, even her presence in his life might not be enough. Not enough to break the spell that hung over his head and was always threatening to turn him into a pillar of salt because he had already seen far too much on the fiery plains of Sodom and Gomorrah during his days on this earth.

The agents gathered around him for their briefing. The time for introspection and regret was over-they had to get going _now_.

God help them all.


	21. Ready, Set, Go

_It's a Chrismas miracle! I actually got the next chapter done! Not that anyone will be around to read it, but if you are, here's wishing all of you and your families a blessed holiday season, along with a great new year. And thanks all for your encouragement and support-it really means a lot._

_Maria_

"I only need five of you" Booth announced tersely.

He looked over the anxious faces of the men and women in front of him, all quietly waiting for his verdict. It wasn't intentional, but his mind automatically went over their personal details. Whether they were married, if they had young kids at home, how much on-field experience they had. He wasn't familiar with every single agent there, but he knew enough about some of them to determine right away whom he wouldn't be taking.

"Markowitz, Harper, Gustavson, Shelby, Perez, Markham: you're with me. The rest, stick with the civilians. Wait out here for the staffers to come out, and then escort them downstairs without going into a long explanation. Orderly, but also don't dawdle. And don't come back up unless you hear from one of us first."

Pulling out a rough diagram of the room, he turned to face Cooper. "This is where I think the main goods are at-there's wires coming out of this closet. It's probably an old-fashioned device, if he's still even using wires, so hopefully it won't be that hard to mess with. Sweets and the others are going to take the focus off you so you can get in unnoticed and do your thing while I cover you. Just try being as unobtrusive as possible-I think there's enough room in there for you to work without being seen."

"I'll get on it immediately, sir. I couldn't bring a full set of tools, but I'm hoping what's in here will do," Cooper replied, holding up a small duffel bag.

"How about the lighting? It's got to be pitch black in there."

"Small but effective flashlight in my cap, plus an additional battery-powered light with a clamp-I'm set. With the other lamps that are already out there, the suspect shouldn't notice."

"Good. Be sure you gauge the situation first," Booth fired off. "Text me your preliminary findings. If you think you can disable it, go to town and text me again when you're finished. If you can't, don't even try-remember you don't have any protective gear on you. I don't want them to have to have to piece you back together like a human jigsaw puzzle back at the Jeffersonian. The staff really doesn't like it-it kills the mood over there like you wouldn't believe."

Cooper smiled. "Okay sir."

"For the ones going on with me, pretend like you're examining evidence-I assume Hacker already explained all this to you. I'm not going to send you a text when I hear from Cooper-too risky. Look over in my direction on the Q.T. every so often. If I give any of you the thumbs-up, start leaving, but not all at once. And that goes for you too, Gustavson-say your piece, and then out."

"Not happening, Seeley" Gustavson scoffed. "Just because I'm retiring soon doesn't mean I'm ready to go gently into the proverbial good night just yet. In two weeks I'll be riding off into a lifetime of Pensacola sunsets with Anne; there'll plenty of umbrella drinks in my warm and balmy future while you're freezing your balls off in DC. But right now, I'm still an agent, and still one of the best guys here. No way am I missing out on the fun. Besides-no matter how much you always wanted it" he added with a sly grin, "you're _not_ my superior officer, so you can't boss me around like you do these other greenhorns. I'm staying on 'til the lights get turned off. Comprende, amigo?"

Booth crossed his arms, mulled over his options, then gave up with an irritated harrumph; they didn't have the luxury of arguing over this. And truthfully, if he was in Gustavson's shoes, he'd be making the same demands as his colleague and long-time buddy.

"You're a pain in the ass, Erik. Fine. But you watch your back-you're not as young as you used to be-don't want you suffering from a slipped disc while you're sipping daiquiris on the beach" Booth said, returning Gustavson's previous dig.

"Hey, you're the one wearing girdles, in case you need to be reminded."

"But sir" Rodriguez said, interrupting the rare moment of levity. It was obvious to Booth that he was still disappointed about being left out of the action, just as all the other agents who had to stay behind. "I did well before-you said so yourself. I can be just as effective now. I'm very familiar with the layout of that room, and most of these other guys aren't."

Without a doubt, Rodriguez had proven himself qualified to join their hunting expedition-Booth couldn't deny that. And his wife had just had a baby six weeks ago.

"Yeah, you did great. But now it's time to let others do their part. You lead the rest of the agents and the civilians out of here-you probably know your way out the best, and speed is of the essence once they start coming. Getting all those people out alive is just as important as dealing with this wacko."

Booth was about to start telling Gustavson and the others to get going, when he remembered something he wanted to do first, while he still had the presence of mind to do it. Once events started cascading into each other, there might not be another opportunity for him to follow through on his wish. He dug deep into one of his pants' pockets, grabbing all that was in it in a single handful. He came up with some odds and ends: loose change, a few paper clips and two other items-the St. Christopher medal that Pops had given him for protection when he joined the army and which had finally made its way back to him from its sojourn to India, along with his wayward brother, and the beat-up, old poker chip he still kept from his gambling days. He handed the medal to Rodriguez in a closed fist, so the others wouldn't see.

"Put that in a safe place" he ordered. "When you get downstairs, you give that to Dr. Brennan for me, okay. Don't forget-I want her to have it."

He put the other stuff back into his pocket along with the poker chip-that little souvenir he would be keeping for good luck.

"Nice chatting with you all, but I have plans to go home and have dinner with my wife sometime before the month is up-I actually _have_ a life," Gustavson said good-naturedly. "So ready or not, I'm going in, fellas. Follow me at your leisure-and remember, I expect all of you at my retirment bash-no lame excuses about deaths or injuries."

"Break a leg" Sweets chirped, his upbeat voice cutting through the tense silence that had once again enveloped the group.

The other members of the team stared at him like he was a little green man freshly beamed in from outer space. Apparently, this wasn't what you said before the start of an FBI operation. _Not the best choice of words there, Lance,_ he concluded, as he saw their perplexed faces.

"It's a showbiz term," he rambled on with increasing mortification. Just how much more did he need to point out to everyone here that he was just a rookie, and not even remotely in their league? He might as well be wearing a clown costume complete with a giant, red nose-not that this would do anything for Booth's blood pressure. "It's a desire that represents the opposite of what you actually want to happen on stage," he added by way of explanation. "What I meant to say…"

Gustavson was having quite the tough time keeping a straight face, Booth noticed archly. By this point, they all pretty much were. _Not a bad way to lift the mood there, Sweets,_ Booth thought, biting down a grin.

"We get it son," Gustavson finally said, throwing Sweets a life-line along with a wink. "Thanks."

Booth saw his handpicked crew enter the room, one by one: Gustavson first, followed by Markham, Harper, Markowitz, Shelby and finally Perez; Sweets was the last of the group to go in.

"Hey" he said, holding his partner back for a fraction of a second. "Break a leg, Sweets."

"You too, Booth," Sweets replied with a nervous smile. A second later he was gone, right along with the others.


	22. Chicken

The set lines of Booth's jaw betrayed little of the enormous apprehension he was feeling as he waited by the door. This dangerous game of chicken they were playing was _his_ idea; if it didn't fly, if the suspect got even the slightest wind of what they were doing, any ensuing deaths, including those of Hodgins, Cam, Sweets-the agents who were also colleagues and friends, whose families he knew-would be on him. Had there really been no better way to do this? To get all those people out safely? The doubts were rolling in at a dizzying pace, leaving him with a less than firm hold on the present. Doubts that were starting to fuel a pointless, downward spiral that had to be stopped before it drained any more of his already threadbare resources.

His mind snapped back to attention; back to the facts and to the strategy they had previously settled on. He'd lectured Sweets on the importance of his FBI training just this morning when they were discussing all the things that went through your head when you came under fire, whether you would or even _could_ react the right way despite all that preparation. For most people things just clicked into place, he had told Sweets. He meant it.

Perhaps the most valuable asset of all that training, of practicing stressful scenarios over and over until every nerve in your body was as raw as flayed skin, was the ability to concentrate and to stay on track even in the face of paralyzing odds-whether it was a bomb about to go off next to you, or a gun aimed at your heart. And there was _absolutely_ no room in that training for any second-guessing, especially for the one in charge. This wasn't just some abstract theory-he'd seen good men die because the person at the top had waffled. It was an ingrained part of both military and law-enforcement life that once a course of action was settled on all involved had to be completely committed to it, especially the commanding officer, no matter how improbable its chances of success. You couldn't get through an emergency any other way. Individuals had to follow the leader and act as a single unit, be of one mind when it came to following through on a plan.

He was the one holding the reins here, and those were _his_ men risking everything to save the lives of total strangers. They depended on his resolve and on his mental alertness. He needed to keep his focus on what was happening in the room next door; neither the past nor the future were of any consequence right now.

The _what ifs_, assuming there would ever even be an opportunity to wallow in them, would have to wait their turn.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he heard Gustavson say in his soft, rolling Minnesota accent, "it has just come to my attention that physical evidence possibly connected to the killer has been discovered behind this building. We need some of you downstairs stat to start cataloguing and collecting the finds, before we lose our sun."

Booth shut his eyes instinctively, unconsciously preparing for a possible blast. He swallowed nervously and then held his breath, as if that act alone could ward off any incoming evil. He had figured if they could only get through this part unscathed, the rest would practically take care of itself.

"Don't think you're going home anytime soon, though" Gustavson warned on the heels of his first announcement; "you're all coming back up here in less than an hour. We're gonna go over every inch of this damn room with a microscope, if that's what it takes to identify our sniper. So leave most of your equipment behind, and remember that there's more technical staff joining you in a bit, so keep your stuff right by where you need it. No one likes a messy room, kids. And no talking to journalists-they're starting to come out like sand flies on a beach at dusk. You know the drill."

Still holding his breath, Booth slowly opened his eyes. No explosion-not yet. A good sign-a great sign, maybe. The only measurable sounds reaching him were the hum of muddled voices mingling indistinctively on the other side of the wall and the dry rustle of uniforms as people were apparently getting ready to migrate to their new assignment.

Within seconds of the speech he saw the first wave of civilians walk towards the stairs, with Rodriguez leading the way. Some of them were bellyaching loudly about having to make the move downstairs only to have to come back up again later.

"I hate this place, man-I don't want to come back" someone groused. "It's f-g cold, and it's creepy-like something out of a slasher movie with all those meat hooks everywhere. I almost lost the top of my head on one of those suckers. Screw it-at this rate, we're _never_ gonna get to go home. They should've just let us finish what we were doing-someone else could have checked out the crap outside. It's not like we're the only qualified techs in town."

_You don't know how lucky you are, buster. Shut your mouth and keep walking_ Booth thought ill-humoredly, doing his best not to give in to the less than charitable impulse of ramming the guy's shoulder hard as a goodbye present.

_Two, four, five_, Booth counted wordlessly as bodies continued to file by. He pulled his gun out of his holster discreetly, and held it to one side as he slid the safety off.

Then a minor glitch in his plan that made his temples throb; he could hear an aggrieved Hodgins debating heatedly with Cam. Hodgins, of all people-the one person he'd sworn he'd get out.

"…not doing it. Hey, they can't just order us to leave" Hodgins ranted moodily. "We're consultants, not FBI hacks. I've got my little six and eight-footed friends to consider; I'm not close to being done rounding them all up yet. 'Leave no bug behind'-it's at the very heart of every forensic entomologist's creed. And no way I'm abandoning my expensive equipment here for some incompetent ape to play with while we're gone."

Apparently, Cam had had enough of the long-running diatribe.

"Out!" Booth heard her snarl back sternly. "_Now_."

The pair grew silent, and shortly after that patently irrevocable order, both Cam and Hodgins joined the ranks of personnel trickling through the door. Catching a glimpse of Booth leaning unobtrusively against the wall, Cam nodded almost imperceptibly in his direction, the words "be careful" mouthed out right before she dutifully followed the chain of flashlight-wielding FBI agents to the stairs. The act was subtle, but Hodgins didn't miss it. He reflexively looked up at Booth, and it was only then that it began to sink in that something about this whole situation wasn't right. Nope, not right at all. Booth was definitely trying to keep a low profile, his watchful stance a pretty major indicator to any man of good understanding that something was on the brink of happening-Hodgins was leaning towards the something in question being an unhappy event. He took a closer look at the agent and spotted the concealed gun at his side. _Okay..._ Hodgins thought, his eyes growing wider by the second with curiosity, _unhappy for sure_.

As much as he loved conspiracies and being in the know, Hodgins conceded that he loved his hide too much to possibly put it at risk by being overly nosy. Besides, Booth was making it clear by his refusal to acknowledge him that this wasn't the time or the place for explanations. So in the end he followed his boss's cue, nodding quietly before moving on.

Booth's muscles relaxed, if only fractionally, when Cam and Hodgins disappeared from view. His friends were out of harm's way, or soon would be. He was glad to at least have been able to keep his promise to Angela, and by default, to little Michael Vincent, that their family would remain intact. If nothing else decent came out of this day, he supposed that would be victory enough.

With most of the technical staff gone, Booth was able to do a quick scan of the room, shielded somewhat by those still lagging behind. Sweets was in the middle of what looked like a spirited conversation with the suspect, whose back was conveniently turned to the door.

_Good job there, Sweets. Keep him talking._

This was his chance-there might never be another opportunity this good to slip inside unnoticed by the killer. Pushing his way past the last of the exiting civilians, Booth made a bee-line for the back, just in time to see Cooper sneaking into the alcove that most likely contained the explosives. The other agents had already seamlessly taken the place of the regular forensic personnel, handling equipment and searching for "clues" as Gustavson pretended to direct their efforts. The suspect continued his amiable chat with Sweets, apparently oblivious to all the changes taking place around him. Their odds were definitely improving.

Sweets had said that he could pull it off, that he could distract their man so that the rest of them could get the job done; and so far, his partner was every bit as good as his word.

_Poor Hodgins_ Booth thought, suppressing a smile as he looked over by the windows. Markham was already in the process of manhandling those pricey and delicate-looking tools.

Well, if anyone could afford new ones, it was his bug-loving pal at the Jeffersonian.

For the first time since the operation got started, Booth gave himself permission to believe that things would actually work out. The plan was going smoothly, much more so than he had a right to expect. An extra lap or two around the track and the race would be over, with the killer neutralized one way or another.

He positioned himself behind one of the columns, holding the gun in his right hand and the cell phone in his left, and waited for Cooper's message. After enduring what felt like the longest five minutes of his life-and there had already been a ridiculous number of those today-the phone finally came alive, vibrating gently in his fist. He looked down guardedly and mentally prepared himself for the demo expert's verdict.

_Can do. 10 min max_, the text from Cooper read.

_Yes_-ten more minutes, give or take a few, and they could call it a day and go home.

Home.

He reminded himself that he had a home now, and an unexpected blaze of joy lit up his whole heart. Sometimes, the fact still didn't quite register.

The home he shared with the woman he'd loved almost since the day he'd met her, and that soon would be welcoming the new, tiny life they had given form to out of the tired heap of their many past missteps with each other. He had a real family and a future to live for-Bones, Parker, his daughter-and no one, least of all a nameless coward, would be taking that away from him today. He gripped the gun with a little more assuredness, letting his finger rest snugly against the trigger, and thought of the lucky poker chip nestled inside his pocket. A few more minutes, and he'd be running like a man on fire down the stairs of the bleak hell-hole he'd been stuck in for what seemed like an eternity, on a mission to find his girl and take her home, like he'd promised to do earlier.

It was completely irrelevant that she'd probably give him the verbal whipping of his life when she saw him, if not more, for the stunt he had pulled on her. After all this ungodly stress, any manifestation of her anger would feel like heaven by comparison. Besides, he could beg for mercy in spades; he'd practically earned a degree in it since they'd moved in together, and he knew that it usually worked if he stayed with it long enough. Annoyingly persistent, that's what she was always saying about him. Without question, he could do annoyingly persistent like a pro.

He just hoped she wouldn't be _too_ mad at him-he really didn't have a burning desire to sleep in Parker's room for any prolonged period of time.


	23. Recoil

From the safety of one of the perimeter stations set up by the FBI's technical support team, Angela and Brennan waited with an odd sense of ambivalence for the first wave of civilian personnel to emerge from the old warehouse. They hadn't said a word to each other since their vigil started, but each could pretty much guess what the other was thinking-that either one of them-or perhaps both-could very well be receiving condolences from friends and family later today, going to sleep in an empty bed tonight. Under the circumstances, it was probably best to leave those thoughts without a voice.

All of a sudden the door frame became a blur, and the first few people blindly tumbled out.

Drawn by all those startled faces shutting their eyes against the setting sun, the two friends started walking in unison away from the safety station towards the hulking structure ahead, even as they were warned by more than one FBI agent to keep their distance. Not that they were being given strict orders to stay away-more like very earnest, heartfelt suggestions. By now most of the field agents from the FBI's Washington office knew Dr. Brennan, if not personally, then by reputation. As if it weren't bad enough that she was as unforgiving a critic of middling performance as they came, she was now also Agent Booth's girlfriend, Agent Booth's _pregnant_ girlfriend, which somehow made her all the more scary even though none of the agents would have been man enough to admit it out loud. They could sense-if not outright see-her growing concern for Booth, and they collectively feared that her usual take-no-prisoners approach in stressful situations would become even more pronounced now that her partner and significant other was in trouble.

So it didn't come as a huge surprise that no one there was willing to go beyond the mildly worded recommendation that Ms. Montenegro and Dr. Brennan stay put where they were at. No one wanted their ass handed to them on a platter in front of their peers, even if it meant being issued a written reprimand by a supervisor later. And if truth be known, the agents were also feeling a good deal of sympathy towards the restless women; they all had families who would probably be just as eager to ignore the rules if _they_ had been the ones in danger, instead of Agent Booth and Dr. Hodgins.

Some of the evacuees Brennan and Angela knew and some they didn't, but the two that meant the most to them were not among that select first group currently unaware that they had just gotten their lives back. Brennan recognized Rodriguez at the head of the crowd; he had been her steward going in and then out of the labyrinthine structure, and the first one to give her an inkling of the bad news that lay in store for her about Booth and the others. He had also been a member of the FBI team that Hacker had sent back up to deal with the crisis, and she wondered why Booth had chosen not to keep him, and whether other agents too would soon be coming out.

The fact that people were being successful rescued should have given Angela and Brennan cause for optimism, but they both understood that in situations like this very little was certain. The course of an event could change in the blink of an eye, good prospects disappearing into thin air unexpectedly with the pull of trigger or the push of a button. Until such a time as Booth and Hodgins were standing before them, the men remained in danger; that was the inconvenient fact they both had to contend with. But it was also no secret to either one of them that of the two, Angela had more of a reason to be celebrating right now. If some people had already made it out, Hodgins was most likely also on his way-a conclusion that didn't necessarily apply to Booth. The disparity in their situations added to the awkwardness hanging over the friends, and gave them one more reason to avoid engaging in conversation.

For Brennan, seeing those whose lives had already been spared brought no relief whatsoever. She was intimately familiar with her partner's way of thinking; that he'd consider it his duty to be the last one out, like the captain of a sinking ship, and for what seemed like the thousandth since she'd met him, she cursed his almost unhealthy devotion to his principles and to the expectations of his chosen career. It was one of the many dilemmas that had plagued her since the earliest days of their partnership: if Booth were any different, if he thought of himself even a little when the welfare of others was at stake, he probably wouldn't be the person she trusted intrinsically and ended falling in love with against her better judgment, but a little less by way of a heroic streak in him would have been a good thing, particularly on this unforgiving day.

The group being led forward by the agents grew larger and suddenly Angela rushed forward, heedless of the now stringent orders to stay back.

"Ma'am, you can't!" one of the agents barked without result as Angela ran right past him. Brennan smiled sadly; she was unreservedly happy for her friend, she truly was, but a twinge of unwanted envy still caught in her throat.

One down, one more to go.

Cam and Hodgins, temporarily blinded by the change in light along with everyone else, were struggling to make sense of the chaos surrounding them when Angela appeared out of nowhere and threw herself into Hodgins' arms, crying quietly as her husband looked increasingly more bewildered. It had been a strange day so far, Hodgins thought as he shook his head, and it wasn't even close to being over yet. Who knew what other weird things were waiting to mess with his mind between now and midnight.

She didn't mean to make a scene, but the unrelenting strain of standing on the sidelines and worrying had taken its toll on Angela's nerves. She couldn't stop crying, even with Hodgins doing everything he could to try to calm her down. He let her carry on for a while, wondering why the entire world had suddenly gone crazy. First Cam's Oscar-worthy portrayal of the wicked witch of the west when he wanted to stay behind with his bugs and his equipment, then Booth's stony poker-face and drawn gun, and now Angela, looking like judgment day was just minutes away from starting.

"What's going _on_ here?" he finally asked, gently freeing himself from his wife's embrace.

Angela sniffed and made an effort to catch her breath as she dried her tears with the back of her hand.

"I was so worried Michael and I wouldn't see you again, Jack" she finally managed to say, her words blending into each other and barely making sense. She then fell right back into Hodgins' arms, and despite his best efforts at disengaging himself, she absolutely refused to let go this time.

"_Jack_?" he asked, making a face. "Whoa, now I'm _really_ freaking out-this must be truly catastrophic. I still don't under…"

The chance to finish the sentence never came; Hodgins' question was cut off by the distant sound of two shots being fired back to back.

The sharp recoil of a discharging firearm was unlike any other noise, and no one who had ever heard it could possibly confuse it for anything else. Everyone on the grounds of the complex immediately stopped in their tracks and stared at the ancient Pinkham warehouse, where the shots had undoubtedly emanated from. With the second shot, the people who up until now had been patiently standing in line right behind Hodgins and Cam waiting for further instructions began pushing forward in a mad rush. Suddenly, everyone wanted the hell out.

"Get as far away from the building as you can, and don't trample each other in the process," a man with a bullhorn yelled. "We need you all over there" he said, pointing to one of the more distant safety stations. "We have to account for every single person who was just inside this building, both civilian and law-enforcement, and that includes all FBI agents. Stat!"

Angela looked back behind her. In her impulsive dash to catch up with Hodgins, she had forgotten all about Brennan. Her friend was standing completely still, except for her eyes, which kept shifting from the fourth floor windows to the door at ground level. The tide of people emerging from the building had stopped abruptly, and Booth hadn't come out.

She approached Brennan guiltily, wanting to offer whatever words of support she could, but acutely aware that the results of their waits had turned out very differently. Nothing she could come up with seemed good enough; she had her guy, and Brennan didn't.

"I'm sure he's okay…" Her words were lost as Brennan brushed past her, apparently never even noticing that Angela was there.

"Where's Booth?" Brennan asked sharply of the agents guarding the entrance to the warehouse. No one responded; in fact, she got the distinct impression that they were avoiding her.

"Booth!" she cried out once again with more force, a new, desperate edge to her voice.

She could see that her efforts were being wasted; Booth wasn't anywhere in sight and the other agents either didn't know anything, or were under strict orders not to talk. In a split-second, she made the decision to head towards the FBI command van.

"Brennan, don't honey," Angela said, trying to hold Brennan back by latching onto her arm. "Let's wait; Hacker promised he'd contact you whenever he got any new information-we should just wait and give them time to sort this out; you don't want to end up accidentally distracting them."

Brennan slipped out of her friend's grip and kept going. She _needed_ to know, and her best odds of getting answers were inside that van.

She didn't have to walk all the way there; Andrew Hacker was already heading in her direction, probably on his way to join the black-clad agents milling outside the building. There were officials from several other law enforcement units walking beside him, some of them talking on their cell phones.

"Where is he?" she asked frantically as she pushed her way in front of Hacker, the other men completely invisible to her.

"There were two shots, Andrew; _two shots_."

As he shifted his focus from his colleagues to Brennan, Hacker was taken aback by what he saw etched on her face; it was a degree of passion, of wildness, he'd never witnessed in the composed, normally unflappable scientist. Excusing himself with a "give me a minute, gentlemen," he took Brennan aside.

"Temperance, I promised I'd be straight with you, and the honest to God's truth is that right now we don't know much about what just happened in there" he admitted, chagrined by his own level of ignorance about the situation. "All I can tell you is that we're in contact with Harper and Markowitz; they were the last two agents to leave the room before the shots were fired. As far as they knew, when they were given the signal to go and wait outside, everything was going according to plan. Cooper had already deactivated the explosive and left with three of the other agents, and the suspect was on the brink of being taken out. Our guys were waiting just outside the door in the hallway when the gun went off."

"And?" she prodded, convinced there had to be more to the story.

Hacker sighed, the same as he'd done earlier; there was no way the woman in front of him was going to be satisfied until she knew absolutely everything, no matter how much it hurt her.

"And, the suspect made it known right away and in no uncertain terms that if anyone made any attempt to go back in, he would kill the remaining hostages, so our guys did what they were told and stayed outside. They're still hanging out there, waiting for orders. He also said he'd be communicating with us soon. Right after that little speech, he slammed the door shut; to the best of out knowledge, he bolted it from the inside."

"The remaining hostages?" Brennan asked.

She had run off in search of answers without giving it a second thought, but now she was beginning to wonder just how much information she really wanted at her disposal. She dug her fingernails into the palm of her hand until she broke the skin, so that the pain could distract her into finishing what she came to do.

"Who's left in there with the killer?"

Hacker hemmed and hawed, scrambling for the answer he felt would be the least damaging. The raw emotion in Brennan's eyes finally led him to tell her what she unquestionably already knew.

"Agents Gustavson, Sweets…and Booth. I'm sorry Tempe. We've tried contacting all three, but so far we haven't heard anything."


	24. Fairy Dust

_In case I haven't had to opportunity to say it to you personally, I wanted to put out there how truly appreciative I am of all the nice comments I've received-I know it takes time and effort to write reviews. Thanks to all for sticking with this very long, winding story and for keeping me going!_

Brennan considered Hacker's information as impassively as she could. Two shots, but a reference to remaining hostages, which indicated that though in all likelihood there were fatalities, more than one of the agents was still alive. Possibly injured, but alive.

"Did he say anything else?"

"He wasn't making much sense, but he mentioned something about hosting another party in town. He claims that if we try to take him out he'll see to it that it gets started right away. I'm not sure what the heck he meant by that. Cryptic stuff."

"Bad news sir."

Agent Flynn, whom Brennan recognized as a colleague of Booth's from the Hoover, came forward with a Maryland state official at his side.

"What? Is anyone else missing?" Hacker asked.

"This is Doctor Brant Cooney, sir; he heads the Maryland State Police Forensic Department. He says that his employees can't find one of his interns."

"Her name is Kaylie Warner," the short, red-faced man offered anxiously. "She's sixteen; she's enrolled in a special program our department offers to local high school students interested in pursuing a forensic or criminology degree in college. With all these CSI-type shows on TV, there's been a huge surge of interest in that area by teens."

"And your office allowed a kid to come to an active crime scene investigation as part of that program? Who approved _that _harebrained idea?" Hacker asked incredulously.

"I'm not going play games with you, Deputy Director Hacker," Cooney replied curtly. "Our office was politically pressured into accepting this girl as an intern and then giving her some special perks as part of the deal that other students don't typically get. And those include letting her go out into the field with our staff whenever it seems reasonable to do so. If you must know, and I suppose it's going to become public knowledge soon enough if she isn't found soon, Kaylie is Senator Ed Warner's granddaughter. She loves crime shows, apparently watches them all the time, and she sweet-talked her grandfather into using his influence to get her admitted into our program. His aides called and asked, and by asked, I mean Warner's hatchet men all but ordered us to accept her as an intern-Warner's a heavy hitter in Washington, and he holds a lot of purse strings. And everyone knows you don't say no to him if you want your state's line items included in the next federal appropriations bill. The old man thought it would look good on his granddaughter's college application for her to be associated with our department, and since she's not an out-of-stater, it was hard to come up with an excuse for turning her down. Like her last name isn't already more than enough to get her into whatever university she wants," he added sardonically.

Cooney's phone rang, and he looked at the name on the screen glumly before silencing it. "What can I say? I'm sorry; my people should have never allowed her to come out here. But in their defense, they had no idea how dangerous this situation would turn out to be. It seemed like a very routine matter at the time. Regardless, I take full responsibility for their decision," he said with genuine regret. "I'm trying to confirm with you whether Ms. Warner is possibly still on that fourth floor before I have to call the Senator's aides and break the news."

"And, is she?" Hacker asked, turning to Flynn.

"We've got nothing on the girl sir; everyone that was inside that building has already been accounted for, except for Dr. Saroyan and Dr. Hodgins here, and I just texted our guys that they made it out." Brennan looked behind her and noticed her two coworkers standing there, along with Angela. They must have followed her when she stormed off, probably worried about her state of mind.

"As far as we can tell, she never came out. The last time anyone saw her was inside that room. Apparently, she keeps her i-phone and her ear buds with her at all times even when she's been asked not to do so. She's a _sixteen_ year old" Flynn said, dangerously close to losing his temper. "She likes listening to music and texting-no big surprise there; it's what they all do. Maybe she wasn't paying attention when Gustavson gave the order to leave. She could've been hiding in one of the closets or the side rooms; that way no one could catch her doing her plugged-in business. "And _that" _Flynn said turning to Cooney archly, "is one of the many reasons there should only be adult professionals present at criminal investigation scenes."

Brennan, caught up in the rapid-fire interchange between the men, had almost forgotten how out-of-control she felt when she had first approached Hacker looking for answers. But the way that Flynn delivered his last line to Cooney, the smart-alecky tone that seeped into his voice when he reprimanded the Maryland official, was so reminiscent of Booth that it immediately brought it all back; the carefully contained pain in her heart, the suffocating sense of dread that clung to her and wouldn't let go, no matter how optimistic she wanted to stay.

"Dear God" Cooney said, suddenly losing his robust color as he began accepting the fact that his underage, media attention-worthy charge was in all probability being held hostage by a crazed killer-if she wasn't already dead. "Alright, looks like I can't avoid making that call after all. But please let me know immediately if you hear anything else." He walked away slowly, holding his phone to his ear, looking years older than he had when he'd shown up with Flynn moments ago.

"So now there are no longer three potential hostages, but four" Brennan stated matter-of-factly, deliberately purging her voice of any emotion. "Although the use of the word 'remaining' suggests that some of them may no longer be alive."

Hacker's eyebrows shot up. "Oh Tempe, let's not go there just yet, okay? We shouldn't be leaping to unfounded conclusions before we have all the information-you of all people should know better than that."

"I remind you again: two shots, Andrew," she replied with a hint of anger. She closed her eyes as a contraction unexpectedly came on-much stronger than the one she had felt this morning after her fight with Booth. "A reference to remaining hostages," she continued as the spasm subsided. "I'm not reaching an 'unfounded conclusion', as you're characterizing it-I'm drawing a logical inference based on the known facts. Do you have any contingency plans to deal with this new turn of events?"

Hacker shook his head. "The big problem we're facing is that we can't do much with so little to go on. I'm sorry;" he said, putting his hand on Brennan's shoulder. "I wish I had something more encouraging to share with you."

"The HR unit is here, sir" Rodriguez informed Hacker, breathing hard after a jog back from the check-in station. "They want to know whether they should try to break into the room to get our agents out; maybe shoot some tear-gas in first through the windows to disable the suspect. Their guys are already in position to do that-they're just waiting for you to give them the okay."

The possibility of any type of armed incursion against the suspect shattered Brennan's fragile composure.

"You can't" she blurted out, before Hacker had the chance to announce his decision.

She knew the protocol by heart, that it wasn't her place to interfere with the way the Bureau went about handling emergencies, but she refused to stay quiet when a move the suspect had already warned against could easily result in Booth's death.

For the very first time a terrible thought crossed her mind, like a hot, oppressive wind blowing almost imperceptibly over a dusty landscape-that Booth wasn't one of the survivors. She quickly blinked away the appalling image of him dead, lying on the floor of the warehouse covered in blood. Until she was presented with real, hard evidence that this was indeed his fate, she wouldn't accept that outcome for him. As a scientist, it all boiled down to the tangible for her, and for now they were only dealing in abstractions.

"You said that the suspect specifically warned against any use of force'" she continued more serenely now, deliberately removing any trace of agitation from her voice so that her suggestions wouldn't be dismissed as the typical pleas of a frantic, unhinged loved one. She knew she had to appear detached-to actually _remain_ detached-if she wanted to be taken seriously by those in charge; but more important than that, if she wasn't able to gain some emotional distance from the situation, she would never be able to contribute anything of value towards the investigation. That's how she worked-pure and simple. She had to revert to once again being Dr. Temperance Brennan, forensic anthropologist with the Jeffersonian, and nothing more. Not Booth's girlfriend or the mother of his child-regardless of how terribly cold and disloyal towards Booth that act would appear not only to those around her, but perhaps even to her missing partner. She hoped he would understand.

"It's obvious at this point that his own survival matters little to the suspect and that he allots absolutely no value to human life; he'll kill the hostages immediately if you make what he perceives to be a wrong move," she argued. "Besides, there's the unresolved matter of his other veiled threats."

"Temperance, we have to handle this our own way" Hacker replied diplomatically. "Although I kind of agree" he said, shrugging his shoulders and looking at Rodriquez. "Maybe we should figure out _exactly_ what we're dealing with here before we go ahead and greenlight a rescue operation. We're still in the dark when it comes to the suspect's identity, so we don't have a clue as to what he meant by hosting 'another party' in town. Even if we didn't have hostages in the mix, it's still a gamble to try to go in there given what else he said; we don't know what the broader ramifications might be. Unfortunately, I think that until we get more on this guy, maybe we're better off leaving things the way they are. We may have to take the killer's word that he'll be contacting us soon, and then go from there. I know it's going to be hard for everyone," he added, catching Brennan's gaze, "but I believe there's nothing we can do for the time being except to wait."

"Not so fast" Cam chimed in, as soon as Hacker was finished with his depressing assessment.

"Maybe there _is _something we can work on while we're waiting for that call," she said. "We might not have done as thorough a job as we would have liked gathering evidence in there, but Hodgins and I managed to bring back a few things with us."

They held up several clear, identical evidence bags. Two contained empty Gatorade bottles, another held a sandwich wrapper, and the fourth, which had Hodgins smiling broadly as he lifted it higher so everyone could get a better look, appeared to have nothing in it at all.

"Okay, I get the wrapper and the Gatorade bottles; we might be able to retrieve DNA and prints from those. But what's with _that_ one" Hacker inquired with a mystified look, pointing at Hodgins' bag. "It just looks empty to me."

"The seemingly invisible material inside this bag, my friends," Hodgins informed the group proudly, "is magic dust. At least we _hope_ it'll turn out to be magic dust. This evidence bag is actually full of microscopic specks of dirt and mites and who knows what other goodies, all probably from the suspect's shoes-maybe his clothes as well. I collected the samples from the area immediately underneath the windows, where the killer's bed was set up and where he probably took his shots from. With the rest of the items we snagged, we might not only be able to figure out who this wacko is, but where he's been in the recent past."

Brennan nodded thoughtfully. "Andrew says the suspect alluded to the existence of another 'event'. I can only assume he's referring to the fact that he's placed explosives somewhere else, either as backup if his plan here failed, as it patently has, or in a bid for additional notoriety. Until we know the suspect's identity, we can't begin to determine what that other location might be, so it's imperative to analyze and decipher this evidence as soon as possible. If the explosives can be found and deactivated, then the FBI can focus all of its resources on rescuing the hostages."

"Back to the Jeffersonian then?" Hodgins asked.

"Won't that take too long? There may be injured people in there-we might not have enough time for that" Angela said, throwing a worried glance in Brennan's direction.

Rodriguez's face brightened. "The FBI's mobile forensic laboratory arrived a few minutes ago; I know it probably doesn't have all of the Jeffersonian's bells and whistles, but could _that_ do as a research facility for you guys? It's loaded with equipment and it's fully staffed; you could get all the technical support you need."

Hodgins and Brennan looked at the agent doubtfully, but Cam nodded slowly.

"Yes, that might very well fit the bill. You know, before I was hired by the Jeffersonian, I sometimes had to do a substantial part of my preliminary coroner's work inside those mobile labs, especially when we were stuck in remote locations. Maybe not all the bells and whistles in there, you're right, but it's got the basics and we've got the skills. We can simultaneously send whatever information we have to the interns back at the lab via the internet; they can corroborate our findings and help us fill in the gaps. Having another set of eyes around never hurt."

It would _have_ to do Brennan said to herself with minimal conviction, tired and discouraged despite Cam's enthusiasm. She didn't want to admit it, but Angela was right-the hostages' prospects were dwindling fast, along with her own hopes of seeing Booth alive again.

Hodgins was the first to follow Rodriguez to the research station.

"To work it is then-I _know_ we can solve this puzzle" he said looking back at his comrades, full of the confidence and energy that always set Hodgins apart in the lab; qualities that alongside his scientific knowledge, Brennan readily admitted, made him one of the most important members of the Jeffersonian team. If only he could infuse her with even a small portion of his sunny outlook...

Hodgins must have sensed Brennan's despair because he smiled warmly at her by way of encouragement.

"_Come on guys_," he said with more insistence. "Let's mess with that bastard's head, and let's get our people back. _No one_ beats our team. Ever."


	25. Best Laid Plans

When he finally came to, it was only in fits and starts. He had no idea where he was, but Booth couldn't shake the feeling that he might be trapped inside some bizarre time loop that had him right back on the floor of the Jeffersonian with two big, overzealous secret service agents on top of him, pinning him down and refusing to lift their weight off him. That's probably why he could barely breathe-and why his head hurt so much. The punches being thrown in there by some unknown assailant were so debilitating that the mere thought of opening his eyes to confirm his whereabouts made him dizzy. Any minute now his sense of déjà vu would be complete, with Bones hovering over him worriedly, calling out his name and asking whether he was okay. But hadn't this already happened a long time ago?

Wherever he was, Bones was never going to forgive him for scrambling his brain yet again. It seemed to be a personal pet-peeve of hers.

Somewhere to his right he could hear the sound of quiet sobbing, and that's when it finally clicked that maybe he wasn't on the floor of the lab after all. Why would someone be crying-he wasn't dead, was he?

There was no avoiding it now-he _had_ to look, regardless of the pounding headache. He turned his head gingerly to focus on the source of the whimpering, and he saw a girl.

_T__hat_ girl.

Mid-teens he guessed, her dark, curly hair a mess and her eyes puffy and bloodshot with tears. She was handcuffed to a pipe a few feet away from him and she kept staring at something in front of her, something that seemed to be terrifying the living daylights out of her but which he couldn't see because there was a column in his way.

Booth could feel a wall directly behind him. He tried sitting up and leaning into it in order to get a better sense of where the hell he was at, but to his surprise, he found that his body wouldn't cooperate. Every cramped muscle, every sore ligament was howling out in outrage against the attempt.

He simply needed to try harder, he told himself.

A more determined effort to push his way up on his elbows resulted in a ferocious stab of pain that tore like lightning through his left side, radiating outwards through his body in waves, almost making him pass out again. Maybe his beat-up brain was the least of his problems.

It hurt. The damn thing hurt, like the kick of an angry mule to the ribs.

Reaching out a tentative hand to the source of his agony, he felt something wet. He didn't have to look to know that his fingers were covered in blood; _his_ blood, warm and sticky as it flowed freely all over the front of his shirt.

This was bad.

Worse than bad; he was hopelessly disoriented, he had a hole in his ribcage the size of a quarter, and judging by the difficulty he was having breathing, whatever had caused the wound had also pierced through one of his lungs. He _had_ to sit up, whether he wanted to or not, because otherwise he ran the risk of bleeding out or choking to death on his own blood before he ever got the chance to figure how he'd ended up like this.

After giving his body a short break to let it get used to the massive burning and piercing echoing throughout his torso, he heaved himself up with every ounce of stamina he had left; only this time, his arms mercifully came through, giving him the power he needed to complete the upwards motion. It had literally taken almost superhuman strength to accomplish this most basic of tasks and once it was over, he lay motionless with his head tipped back, his body shaking and sweating from the effort.

When the torment ebbed a little he looked over to the girl, but this time, his eyes got no further than the floor: there was Sweets, his face turned away from him, out cold by the young woman's feet.

_Oh God_, Booth thought as his heart took a tumble. _No, no. Please don't let him be dead..._

As Booth frantically searched for signs of life in his partner's prone body, the missing parts of the story began to slowly come together in his mind; grainy, ragged bits of imagery that were coalescing into a very ugly picture. A dilapidated cold-storage facility, a wolf in sheep's clothing, a young woman suddenly materializing out of nowhere, stepping into his line of sight, forcing him to abruptly change direction.

Through gritted teeth, Booth pressed his left hand hard against the wound he knew would end up killing him if he couldn't stop or at the very least slow down the loss of blood. What the hell had gone wrong? He needed to think back, to recreate the sequence of events that had culminated with him and Sweets landing spread-eagled on the floor of the warehouse and the girl in handcuffs. And where were Gustavson and the others? He tried narrowing his thoughts to those last, few seconds before he'd lost consciousness; those crucial few seconds when everything had suddenly been turned topsy-turvy.

He remembered having his finger on the trigger of his gun as he quietly made his way to the front of the room from the rear. Rounding one column after another in order to get a clearer shot at the suspect. He'd gotten the thumbs-up from Cooper and sent the message covertly to the rest; that part he was pretty sure about. Next up, Markowitz and the others leaving as planned, which meant that Sweets and Gustavson were the only other members of his team left in the room with him and the killer.

It was actually absurd, what an insignificant amount of work was left for them to do to in order to finish off the job. With the staff gone and the explosives rendered worthless, the suspect was ripe for the picking.

But fate had apparently decided to intervene and make a mockery of all their carefully laid-out strategies, cheating them of their victory right when it had been right before them.

It all came into razor-sharp focus now.

He was steadily closing in on the suspect, seconds away from getting past that last pillar and issuing the required FBI warning, when he heard the first shot. He had no idea whether that first bullet ever found its way to its intended target or whether that target had been Sweets, but the second one-that one he could sure as hell vouch for. That second bullet had ripped through him, slamming him in the process into the wall, right as he lunged forward to put himself between the hidden killer and the girl who'd come out of nowhere. It had been a purely instinctive reaction on his part; there'd been no time to think or to do anything else-not even to try to get off a shot of his own. The unmistakable contour of a metal barrel had told him there was a gun aimed in her direction, and he could either push her out of the way, or watch as a bullet sliced through her heart.

He reached back into his foggy brain for more. The girl, she'd been peering down at her phone as she came out of a side-room by the windows, a pair of ear buds apparently making her oblivious to everything in her environs. It looked like she was in the middle of texting someone.

How would _that _look on his record? Decades of special training, of hard-core military tours and FBI missions, only to be taken down by a teen's text. He shook his head in disbelief.

So that was it, and here they were-end of story.

He surveyed the room for the suspect but as much as he could tell, the man wasn't there. Booth noticed that the door leading to the hallway had been bolted shut from the inside though, so he couldn't be too far, unless the creep had figured out a way to magically make his escape without being spotted. Anything was possible; there was still a lot they didn't know about this god-forsaken building.

"Hey" he whispered to his companion, the effort it took to get the word out not lost on his throbbing side. "You okay?"

The terror-stricken girl turned her face to him, but he knew what the blank expression meant: a complete lack of comprehension. It was as if he wasn't there at all. Just like he'd told Sweets earlier, severe shock very seldom translated into a coherent phrase.

Getting her to pay attention was going to be tougher than he thought.

"You hurt?" he tried again. "I need you to help me, please."

Her eyes held his for an instant, before they went right back to whatever it was that was making her so frightened. What the f-k was she gawking at? Didn't she know they needed to work together on this, that he was her only chance of getting out of here alive?

Ignoring the trail of blood left behind as he moved sideways, Booth groaned as he scooted his body closer to the girl's in order to get a glimpse of whatever it was she was looking at that was invisible to him from his current location. When that alone didn't give him the results he wanted, he leaned in closer, stretching his neck as far out as he could without throwing up from the pain.

Maybe he'd been better off where he was at.

What he saw made him ill.

Gustavson's back had been thrust onto one of the rusty meat hooks hanging from the wooden ceiling beams of the warehouse, and his eyes were open and vacant. There was a gaping bullet hole in his right temple, hopefully betraying how he'd met his end; a point-blank shot to the head would at least mean a quick, relatively painless death for his colleague. As Booth stared slack-jawed, his own injuries forgotten for the moment, dark, fluid ribbons were making their way down Gustavson's frame from the wounds in his head and back, coming together at the tips of his shoes. From there, gravity took care of the rest. The now single stream of blood continued the last of its sojourn towards the floor, where it was already collecting into a sizeable pool just beneath the dead man's feet.

Drip, drip, drip.

The sound was nauseating.

The impact of the cruel set-up left Booth reeling. He'd witnessed a lot of traumatic things in his lifetime, but none had affected him quite like this. Gustavson wasn't just a coworker-he was a friend. He'd met his wife and kids at office picnics, shared drinks with him at the end of more than one case. He was a good, honest, generous man with a great sense of humor, who loved his family and who wholeheartedly believed in the goodness of his country. A tough, savvy veteran of urban warfare who had risked his own hide more than once to get the job done.

This wasn't how it was supposed to end, with Gustavson's body hanging impiously in a meat locker like that of a butchered animal.

In two weeks, the office was supposed to be throwing him one whopping good retirement party. He and Bones would be there for sure to wish him and his wife good luck on this next chapter of their lives, a chapter they'd been saving for and dreaming about for a long time. A home and a boat in balmy Florida, purple and orange hued sunsets skimming the water as far as the eye could see, grandkids chasing each other and making sand-castles on the beach while the adults stood by watchfully, perhaps sharing happy stories with each other and maybe a nice bottle of wine or two.

It wasn't supposed to end like this at all.

He forced himself to look away.

Like it or not, he had to be pragmatic about the situation. Gustavson was dead, and there was nothing anyone could do for him now. The important thing was to get through to the girl; she-and with any luck Sweets-were the only ones he had to worry about.

He tried again.

"Hey-don't look over there anymore. Keep your eyes on me, you get it?" he ordered in a low voice. "What's your name?"

The deep, commanding tone that came so naturally after years of leadership seemed to do the trick; the girl's head turned towards Booth again, but this time, his presence triggered a semblance of a response.

"Kaylie," she stammered. "It's Kaylie."

"Just don't look at him-don't. So, you hurt?"

She shook her head.

"That's good. How about him," Booth asked, nodding over to Sweets' body, so ominously still. "Can you tell me what happened to him? Can you tell if he's still alive?"

The girl stared at his partner.

"I…I don't know-he's just lying there," she answered in a shaky voice.

"Did he get shot too-did you see?"

"No…" There was a moment of hesitation as she made a visible effort to pull herself together. "No," she continued with more certainty; "he didn't get shot; I'm almost sure. I think that man smashed his head with the gun right after he shot you, and he fell down after that. There's a lot of blood all around his face. I can't tell if he's breathing."

Booth knew it wouldn't be there, but he had to check.

Of course not.

His gun was gone. His cell phone and his wallet too, along with his handcuffs.

"Where is he-the guy who did this?"

She motioned with her head over to the alcove that Cooper had been working in, the one where the explosives were stored. Booth listened carefully. There was definitely someone in there, rummaging around, the faint glow of a flashlight bouncing every so often off the walls.

"You try to keep calm, okay. If you were part of the crew that was in here before, then I know you can handle yourself. You an intern?"

She shook her head. "I'm in high school-I'm in a special program." Despite Booth's exhortation, the young woman began to cry again.

"There, you see?" Booth lied; "_special program_. They must trust you if they brought you along to something like this. You follow my orders, and everything will be alright. The FBI is just outside, and they're coming for us real soon. Your only job right now is to keep watch over my friend there. His name is Sweets. If he starts waking up, try to make eye contact with him very, very quietly and with as little fuss as possible, and see if you can get him not to move. We don't want him to get hurt any more, and if the suspect thinks he's still alive or that he's a threat, he might go after him again. You can do that for me, right? Keep your eyes on him?"

She sniffed and nodded.

"So we have a deal, Kaylie; that's your job then. But don't draw attention to yourself by crying or talking-I need you to lay low; it'll make my job easier if he forgets you're here. You understand?"

"Okay" she eked out weakly. Her eyes grew wide again as they flew past Booth.

"Ah, finally" he heard a voice call out to him.

The suspect had emerged from the back, a tool kit in hand and a familiar blue duffel bag slung over his shoulder. There was an open smile on his lips, but it was as detached and unwelcoming as his pale blue eyes.

"And here I'd almost given up on you" he said, squatting in front of Booth so that he could examine him more closely. The calculating inspection made Booth feel like an injured animal caught in a trap, with the hunter weighing the pros and cons of finishing him off. "I was really hoping you'd pull through, though. I needed a little more leverage. On second thought, I shouldn't have killed that other one," he said, glancing at Gustavson's body. "But sometimes, I'm just too f-ing accurate for my own good. Gets me in trouble every time."

The reference to his fallen comrade made Booth want to leap up and break every bone in the killer's body, but besides the fact that he wasn't remotely able to stand, much less engage anyone in any sort of physical confrontation, he knew it wouldn't be a wise move. What he needed was to talk calmly to the suspect, try to win him over to buy the FBI some time. Alienating him would be the worst possible thing that he could do; he didn't need Sweets by his side to warn him about that.

"And how about this one?" the man asked, pulling a gun from his waistband and aiming it at Sweets. "Maybe I should just put this one out of his misery, assuming he's even still alive. Don't you think?"

Booth was bent on keeping his cool.

"Don't bother;" he said in a casual tone. "He's just a paper-pusher, not a real first-responder like the rest of us. He's not worth the price of a bullet. The top brass sends him along to keep an eye on the rest of us, so there aren't any lawsuits later."

"And the badge and the gun?" the killer asked, narrowing his eyes with suspicion.

"He got them a few days ago-it's only because he knows people in the Bureau. Guy can't hit a target two feet away from him; it's a joke. Even the noise of the discharge scares him. He thinks he's a real agent, but we all know it's nothing but an empty title. Hey, you were talking about how accurate you are" Booth said, desperately fishing for a new, less dangerous topic. "I've got to hand it to you; you're _very_ accurate. I'm impressed," he added enthusiastically. "Where'd you learn to shoot like that-you a military man, I'm guessing?"

The suspect relaxed and put the gun back into his waistband.

Booth took a deep breath; close, close call for Sweets there.

"Army. And I'm only giving your buddy here a break out of professional courtesy-I know who you are. You're _the_ Seeley Booth, aren't you?" he asked in an admiring tone, willing to let the previous subject go. He held up the card that Booth had given him during that morning's interview and twirled it around in his fingers. "With the Rangers? Got to be-it's a pretty unusual name, and what with you being FBI and all... Believe it or not, I was always trying to be just like you when I was in the service. We all were. Your aim is legendary among the infantry guys-especially the snipers. Did you know that? But of course you do. Who'd have ever guessed we'd cross paths like this? You were my idol back then-the gold standard among shooters. I couldn't believe my luck this morning when you handed me that card. Seeley Booth on my case-imagine that. I didn't realize who I was talking to in that parking lot until I got home. It's a good thing I didn't make the connection right away-it might have tripped me up."

"So we're both army guys, huh?" Booth replied, ignoring the compliment. "Where'd you serve-you must have been deployed overseas, you're too good to just be stateside."

"Afghanistan-three tours. Heard you were there on my last one. Didn't get to meet you then, but here we are; it's a small world, ain't it. And I _was_ good. Too good, apparently. People, they get jealous, even in the military. A little longer and I would have had your records licked, I'll have you know. All I needed was a little more time. Just a little more time" he mumbled, as his face took on a far-away expression. "Listen, it's been nice talking to you" he said smiling once again. "But I have some things I _have_ to get done. Your guys sure did a number on my munitions-lucky for you I'm a very forgiving man. Besides, I always have a backup plan. Always-it's going to be a hell of a finishing number. Now, when I'm done, we'll talk some more-I promise. It's always nice chatting with a fellow ex-soldier. No one else knows what it's like-they all say they do, but they don't."

"Wait-you know _my_ name. What's yours?" Booth asked.

After thinking it over, the killer nodded.

"Sure, I can give you my name. Why not? It won't change anything. It's Grant; Thaddeus Grant. Weird name, huh, like something out of an old-time Western-you can probably relate. No one calls me Thaddeus, though. They call me Ted-couldn't even get them to get the Tad part straight. That's what happens when your crazy, bible-thumping asshole of a dad insists on giving you some backwater name; no one can ever get it right. Hey," he said, suddenly looking very pleased with himself. "You know what's funny about us?"

"What?"

"Booth-that's the last name of the actor who killed Lincoln, isn't it? And my last name is Grant, like the name of the president who came _after_ Lincoln. It's poetic justice, don't you think? A guy with the name of a president-killer, getting killed by a man with the name of a president. Pretty ironic, huh? Payback's a bitch, no matter how long it takes," he said chuckling. "I'll give you some time to mull that one over so you can appreciate just what a weird coincidence that is. Yup, definitely poetic justice, I think. Be back in a bit."

Poetic justice, or just the universe having a hearty laugh at his expense? Either way, Booth decided gloomily, it sucked.


	26. Last Memory to Fade

"Codis came back and we have a hit. Thaddeus Ephraim Grant, West Virginia native, 35" Flynn announced to the group after a thirty minute absence from the research trailer. He held up a photograph and Brennan scrutinized it from her chair.

Even though the slightly overweight, balding man she had spoken to in the warehouse bore little resemblance to the wiry, buzz-cut sporting one in Flynn's picture, Brennan recognized the underlying facial structure right away.

Bones never lied.

"Quite the mouthful-apparently goes by the name of Ted Grant. Fingerprints confirm his identity."

"Why is he showing up on Codis? Does he have a criminal record?" Cam asked.

"No criminal record, but he served in the army; three tours in Afghanistan-last one ended on a sour note two years ago. Not surprisingly, he was very skilled with a rifle and apparently overly-enthusiastic about his job. So much so, that he was court-martialed on his last tour over a mission that took a wrong turn. Four dead civilians, along with one possible insurgent."

"So why is he scampering merrily around DC right now and picking people off left and right instead of rotting away in some army prison?" Hodgins asked in a venomous tone. "Military" he muttered under his breath, shaking his head contemptuously.

"It's not that simple, Dr. Hodgins," Flynn shot back. "The witnesses against him were either deemed unreliable or they were unreachable at the time of the trial, and apparently the defense was able to create enough doubt in the military panel's mind over the nature of the events to give Grant an out. Both sides brought in psychiatrists of course, with the defense claiming PTSD and an honest mistake on Grant's part, and the prosecution arguing that Grant was a sociopath who knew exactly what he was doing when he killed those civilians. Ultimately, Grant was found innocent; although his actions and his overall judgment were labeled questionable at best by the panel-there just wasn't enough evidence to do anything about it. After what amounted to a slap on the wrist, he was discharged from the military over the strong objections of some of his commanding officers who thought he was a dangerous nut; they felt Grant posed a risk to the general population if he was allowed to go free. There's a pretty big asterisk affixed to his service record, although the record itself isn't available to the public. No one checking up on his references would know about the incident."

Brennan took in the new information, but found little of use.

"So where does he reside now-where is he employed? His name and his previous occupation are irrelevant if they don't lead to something concrete," she finally ventured.

Flynn pressed his lips together and looked down as he shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

"I wish we had more, Dr. Brennan. We did find out that after his discharge, he applied for jobs with the Arlington Fire Department _and_ their Police Department, but both turned him down; psychological tests administered to Grant suggested he wasn't a good fit with either unit. When asked about his motivation for pursuing those careers, his answers apparently raised more than one red flag. It became clear pretty quickly that the main reason he wanted to join was out of an overwhelming need to bring attention to himself. I'm guessing that those rejections coupled with his last experience in the military are where a lot of his anger towards first responders stems from. We've checked the home address he listed on his applications, but there's no one there by that name anymore and he left no forwarding address."

"That's it?" Brennan asked.

"I'm sorry-it's only been half an hour; that's all we have for now" the agent apologized. "We're checking up on his connections in West Virginia, but it doesn't seem he's been there recently. None of the few people we've been able to reach who knew him have any information as to his whereabouts; not surprisingly, they all say he has few friends-and what little family he has hasn't heard from him in years. He used to be a handyman, a jack-of-all trades type before he joined the army. He could be self-employed, in which case we have no way of locating him through Codis. We're going through phone and address records in the area, but there are a lot of Ted Grants out there. Unfortunately, attempting to contact all of them is going to take some time."

"There _is_ no time," Hodgins muttered.

"So what you're really saying is that the FBI currently has nothing" Brennan stated as her eyes bore into Flynn, a note of resentment creeping into her voice.

"Now Dr. Brennan, we still have Hodgins' particulates," Cam reminded her gently. "We've done more with less, remember? And the FBI is still working on the listings. Dr. Hodgins, how are you coming along?"

"Getting there-just a few more minutes."

The cramped quarters were beginning to make Brennan claustrophobic. Their small Jeffersonian team, along with the station's normal roster of staff, had somehow managed to fill the bus to capacity, and it seemed as if her ever-expanding mid-section was in everybody's way. Maybe _she_ was in the way.

She never thought that there would come a time in her life when she would be of so little use to anybody. Temperance Brennan was accustomed to setting the pace, to breaking new ground while others followed up on her successes and her discoveries. When she went with Rodriguez and her coworkers to the research trailer, it had been with the intention of being a fully active participant in the investigation; but here she was, feeling increasingly impotent, stuck on the sidelines, with little better than a biting comment to offer by way of insight. It had never occurred to her that of course there wouldn't be much for her to work on. There was no body-not yet. The rest, the fingerprints, the DNA, the particulates, those were not her specialty regardless of how knowledgeable she was in those areas, and with the limited equipment available, it fell to Hodgins and Cam to do the heavy lifting. Her presence here might in fact only turn into a hindrance for those entrusted with decoding the evidence that had been recovered from the crime scene.

It was frustrating to the point of tears to be relegated to the role of observer in her own life-and Booth's.

She felt Angela's hand on her shoulder.

"Hey sweetie, what was that all about back there?"

Brennan looked puzzled. "To what are you referring to?"

"When you were talking to Hacker, I could've sworn you looked like you were in pain. Were you having contractions?" Angela asked with concern.

Brennan shook her head, bent on downplaying her recent discomfort. "They're only Braxton Hicks. I've experienced them before. It's probably because I'm slightly dehydrated."

She remembered her water bottle, the one that Booth had given her and which she had left on the window sill of that fourth floor room in her hurry to meet up with a non-existent Russ. A wave of longing for her mate and his ridiculous over-protectiveness washed over her, and she wrapped Booth's oversize jacket tighter around herself, swallowing a lump that had unexpectedly formed in her throat.

Impossible as it was, the jacket felt as if it still radiated his body's comforting warmth. It carried his scent, of cologne and after-shave, and the clean, masculine smell of his skin, and she was bowled over by the acute feeling of loss that enveloped her.

Through the years, the after-shaves and the colognes had varied, but one constant remained; she found Booth's scent incredibly stimulating, that unlikely amalgam of urbane, preening gentility and the out-and-out male. This had been true even before they were a couple, when they'd been only partners first and then friends, but she had stubbornly refused to own up to that dangerous truth back then.

It was all perfectly explainable. Smell was the most primitive of all the senses, and the emotional connections made through it generally were of the most visceral kind, and quite often, the last ones to fade in life. The smell of a newborn, of a full-blown rose on a warm June afternoon, of cookies baking in the oven, of a man making love to you. Of Booth making love to her; the scent of sweat, and pheromones and cologne-as distinctive and beguiling as the feel of his naked skin on hers.

How could it be that from this day on forward, the most immediate and primal memory of Booth might only exist on the counter of their bathroom, trapped within two half-empty glass bottles?

"Brennan?" Angela asked worriedly when the anthropologist's explanation was seemingly cut-off by no reason. "Sweetie, you're forgetting that I was pregnant not that long ago. And those didn't look like Braxton Hicks contractions to me. Brennan, you're only seven and a half months along; strong contractions aren't normal at this stage of pregnancy. Sure you're okay? It's been a very long day, and you've been through a lot. You know" Angela went on, trying to breach a difficult subject; "maybe you _should_ go home and lay down for a while, just until these guys get their act together. I can take you; I can even stay with you if you want. I'm sure Cam will call when she and Hodgins get the results of their tests back."

"I'm not leaving him." If she had to repeat that a thousand times today, she would.

"Honey, be reasonable here. We don't want anything to happen to you _or_ the baby; Booth would be mad."

"Booth isn't here to state his opinion" Brennan answered sharply, not knowing why she was feeling this surge of anger and resentment towards her partner-just that she was.

"I beg to differ" Angela said, resting her hand on Brennan's growing belly. "I think a part of him is."

It didn't take long for Angela to realize that she wasn't going to win this argument regardless of how much effort she put into it, so she decided to improvise. "Okay, you don't go home for now, but I'm going to get you a drink along with something to eat, and you're going to be a good girl and polish everything off. I'm not going to stop nagging you until it's all gone, so don't try pulling a fast one on me. Okay?" she finished, wagging her eyebrows at her.

"Alright," Brennan answered with a sigh of surrender. "Thank you, Angela."

Angela put a hand on her friend's shoulder, and the two women walked back into the trailer.

It was precisely what Brennan didn't want-to become the focus of attention, to take away any resources, no matter how small, away from Booth and the other hostages. But Angela was correct; she couldn't act as if her own well-being didn't matter, because now she was responsible for someone else, someone who possessed neither the voice nor the physical ability to fend for herself. She replaced the feel of Angela's hand on her abdomen with her own, and felt the baby-her and Booth's baby-kick weakly.

Angela was returning with a bottle of juice and a sandwich when she saw Rodriguez approach Brennan uneasily, a look of disquiet, perhaps even of fear, on his face.

"Dr. Brennan, I'm sorry to bother you, but with all that commotion before, I forgot that Agent Booth gave me something for you when he sent me downstairs." He took a chain out of his pocket, which Brennan recognized instantly. It was Booth's St. Christopher medal, a version of the popular talisman still often carried by travelers of various faiths, irrespective of the fact that St. Christopher was no longer an accredited member of the Catholic Church's roster of saints. She had had that particular argument more than once with Booth; that good-luck charms were ineffective, that a person couldn't expect to receive protection from life's vagaries from an object so small and insubstantial, especially one bearing the image of someone whom the Church no longer recognized as an actual holy person-or even a real one.

Not a single one of her many flawless arguments could ever dissuade Booth from his belief that the amulet's powers were real.

"It doesn't matter, Bones" Booth would invariably retort. "What matters is the faith of the person carrying it. Pops gave this to me because he was sure it would protect me-and I made it back from all those dicey missions, didn't I? There-_that's_ your proof right there that it works. I don't mess with your prayer beads from Nepal or wherever they're from, do I? So you leave St. Christopher and me alone."

They weren't _her_ prayer beads, not in the sense that Booth was implying. To her, they were simply anthropological reminders of the infinite variety of human faith throughout the world, as well as concentration aids to help bring on a meditative state, helpful when she needed to cogitate on a scientific or a literary problem. For those reasons, and those reasons alone, she valued those beads. Not because she thought running them through her fingers would miraculously get her any closer to nirvana, or because they would somehow keep her safe if she believed in them enough. That would have been tantamount to surrendering to superstition, and as a practical empiricist, she knew that to be a foolish endeavor.

"I didn't want to walk off with it, in case I didn't get a chance to see you later" Rodriguez added, bringing her back to the present.

The worn silver medal along with its chain went into the palm of her hand, still warm from its temporary residency in the young agent's pocket.

Angela was looking at her friend in consternation. Booth's medal; by now everyone who knew him also knew that he never went anywhere without it. Whenever he took stuff out of his pockets it would inevitably make an accidental appearance in his hand, along with his old poker chip. Booth sending it to Brennan was a strong indicator of what his mental state must have been like right before he went on to deal with the killer-and not a very promising one. Relinquishing it could only mean he thought he had a good chance of not making it back, and he wanted to make sure that the love of his life would end up with it. Angela watched Brennan closely, looking for signs of a possible breakdown.

It wasn't how she thought her friend would react. Tears, sadness, fear-that would have been Angela's particular emotional refuge if she'd received something so personal, so valued from Hodgins at a time like this. But anger? No; she didn't expect that part at all.

"Dammit, Booth" Brennan cried out, as the others in the van turned and stared, taken aback by the rare display of emotion.

"Damn you'" she went on as she looked at Booth's unexpected gift, blind to the surprised faces around her. "You got yourself into this mess, and now I have to sit around and see how it unfolds without being able to do anything about it!"

She threw the medal on the nearest counter and walked out of the station, as Angela's expression betrayed her shock over her friend's behavior. It was a side of Temperance Brennan few people had ever gotten to see-and it was frightening.

Angela was the first in the station to regroup. She set the bag of food and the juice bottle down as Hodgins and Cam continued to stare mutely, still mystified by their colleague's reaction. There was no time to think; Angela knew she had to go after her best friend before things fell apart even further.

Brennan was definitely in dire need of another intervention, Angela decided. Grabbing the medal, she took off, her hands shaking a little because she was dreading what would surely be a very uncomfortable conversation; she had never seen Brennan so unjustly mad at anyone before and she meant to call her on it regardless of the tongue-lashing she might get back in the process.

"Brennan, sweetie, wait up. Why are you saying stuff like that? You know it's not his fault; he would never choose to do this to you. If you're angry, it should be at Grant, not Booth."

Brennan spun around, her cheeks tinged a dark pink with fury.

"He sent me away while he stayed up there, Angela. _That_ was a choice."

Angela stood by without saying a single word, waiting patiently for Brennan to finally let her guard down. She was certain it would happen any minute now; no one could stand up to that amount of strain without breaking at some point. And almost immediately, just as Angela expected and to her great relief, Brennan began to cry softly, her hair tumbling forward as her hands went up to her face to try to hide her grief.

"Not a choice, hon, a duty. He was trying to save the lives of dozens of people, including yours and the baby's. It wouldn't be Booth if he had acted any differently-I don't think he even _knows_ how to do things any other way."

"I know it's not fair to Booth, I know it's a very irrational way for me to view things, but I can't help how I feel" Brennan replied between muted sobs. "You told me this morning that regardless of what the future might hold in store for you and Hodgins, you would never regret being with him-no matter how bad it might get. Well, I'm not so sure I can say that about me and Booth. He made me fall in love with him;" she said, her voice threaded through with bitterness. "He turned my life upside down, and I allowed him to do it. After all those years I finally opened my heart to him, I put my faith in what I saw as a real future for us, and now I find there might be nothing there."

Angela shook her head vehemently.

"You don't mean that, Brennan. I know you don't. Of course it was worth it; _is_ worth it. And as for nothing, there's that little girl you're bringing into the world, the one you and Booth both helped to make. You're just hurting now, plus you're wiped-out and frustrated-it's a bad, bad combo. Now, I want you to go back into that bus with me and get a hold of yourself, or I'm taking you home by force, if necessary. If you feel that you're in no condition to give Hodgins and Cam a hand, then don't pull their focus away from their job. Does that make sense? Please think about what I'm saying; you know I'm right."

Angela regretted having to resort to such strong-armed tactics, but she recognized that what her friend needed most at this moment was a firm hand, not some soothing, touchy-feely speech.

Angela's harsh words seemed to bring Brennan out of her misery-laced trance.

"You're right" Brennan admitted, after having unwillingly accepted that Angela was once again correct. She dabbed at her eyes and took a deep breath.

"I _am_ frustrated and tired; I'm willing to admit to that. But I can't go home. I just can't; how could I? There's nothing there for me. I'll stay here, but I promise that I'll do my best to remain calm in order to be able to assist the research team in any way that I can."

As soon as she saw Brennan's attitude change, Angela softened her approach. "I love you sweetie; please don't forget that-we all do; you're not alone." She put the medal back into Brennan's hand, closing her friend's fingers over it.

_You're not alone._

Angela was a dear friend and she meant well, but that didn't make what she was saying true; even with a baby nestled inside her, she had never felt more alone in her entire life.

"Thanks, Ange," came Brennan's unconvinced reply. She curled her fist into a tight ball and let the medal's edges dig into her skin, as if protecting Booth's charm that way would somehow protect Booth as well. It was all she had to keep her going.


	27. Sergeant Wilson

When the suspect casually walked away from him without even looking back, it dawned on Booth that something was off-yeah, that was it; Grant hadn't bothered to secure him with handcuffs, like he'd done with Kaylie. And as odd as it was, it made perfect sense. Why would he? It was one enormous, flashing neon sign on a dark highway that in his current condition, he posed absolutely no threat to anyone. Christ, even swallowing had become a challenge. He could already taste traces of blood in his saliva, and with every heartbeat came a bigger and bigger struggle to take in air.

His lungs were filling up with fluid. He was slowly drowning in his own blood, and no amount of sitting up or pressing against his side was going to change that.

The killer couldn't fail to miss what an unholy wreck he was, and that's why he wasn't worried. Without a weapon and with his white shirt resembling a matador's red cape, Booth realized he was nothing more than a sitting duck. But he also admitted that it wasn't just his body that ached; Grant's easy dismissal of Booth as a potential adversary had hurt his pride pretty badly as well-when was the last time that a teenaged girl was considered more of a danger than him?

He watched with interest as the suspect crept up to one of the windows, crouching along the way to avoid the snipers he must have guessed were on the lookout for him. Because things weren't bad enough as they were, the FBI would also have to contend with the man's military background before they could get anywhere. Bottom line, taking care of this situation would require extra time because of Grant's training, time he and the others just didn't have.

Grant pulled out an old-fashioned battery radio from his duffel bag, extended the antenna all the way and turned it on; initially, Booth could make out nothing but hisses and crackles and jumbled bits of song, until the impersonal voice of a reporter caused the killer to stop fiddling with the dials. He must have been pleased with the selection because he left it on that station and then carefully propped the radio up on the sill, probably hoping for better reception.

Booth's gaze lingered on the radio-weirdly enough, in an already surreal day, Pops had one exactly like it-and then it drifted to the items right next to it: a filthy, decaying rag, a rusty screwdriver and Bones' water bottle.

He waited apprehensively for the suspect's next move, but it never came. Grant simply slid into a sitting position below the windows, seemingly transfixed by the female reporter's crisp, no-nonsense voice coming out of the radio's less than stellar speakers.

"The standoff at the abandoned Pinkham warehouse, which began at approximately 4:00 this afternoon, continues. There are conflicting reports as to the number of hostages being held by the presumably lone gunman, although the FBI has confirmed that three of its agents are missing. However, there are indications that a sixteen year-old high school student volunteering with one of the Maryland forensic units is also unaccounted for and might be somewhere inside the building. So far, the FBI spokesperson has refused to comment on that situation. While there are rumors as to the girl's identity, her name is being withheld pending further…"

Booth saw Grant smile. "High school-better and better," he heard him say under his breath.

Kaylie caught that whole interchange-the broadcast along with Grant's self-satisfied smile-and she looked up at Booth fearfully. The panic was returning; Booth could see it in her eyes. But as soon as he tilted his head towards Sweets' body, the mop-topped girl nodded bravely and resumed the job he'd assigned her before. She was a good kid; doing okay at holding herself together, given the mess they were in. No more crying, no hysterics-just a catatonic fixation on Sweets, like he'd asked. If they ever got out of this pickle in one piece, he'd personally tell her parents how proud they should be of their daughter.

Not that keeping watch over Sweets would make a difference, Booth acknowledged wearily, because he had yet to see a single sign of life in his partner. The chore was just something to take her mind off the unavoidable elephant in the room. For a second back there, Booth could've sworn he'd seen Sweets' arm move just a fraction, but his eyes kept clouding over, and he conceded that they were more than likely just playing tricks on him-making him see what he wanted to see, rather than what was truly there.

Realistically, Sweets wasn't going anywhere even if he was still alive, not with his head bashed in the way it was.

Taking in the few items on the window sill one more time, Booth chuckled in his misery; the damn water bottle. There was no keeping up with that woman. Couldn't she follow his advice even a single, friggin' time? Sometimes, he got the sneaking suspicion that her implacable orneriness stemmed purely from a desire to age him prematurely right into the grave. By now Rodriguez had to have given her his token, and he wondered how she'd taken the gesture. Angela, Cam the squint squad; he was counting on them to keep her grounded, to keep her and their child safe, because he couldn't.

He didn't want to think about what it would do to her if he died today. She was so put together, and by all appearances so strong-she _was_ strong…but he knew. Better than anyone, he knew.

She would go on no matter what happened, and she'd be a great mom even if she had to go it alone, but her heart-that's what had always worried him about Bones; always that. She could suffer so deeply, so intensely while hiding behind that cool, rational exterior, and few people understood how she really worked. Max certainly, and maybe Angela, but he questioned whether their combined efforts would be enough to keep her from closing herself off emotionally again if he died like this. And if that happened, would she ever allow herself to be happy again, to let herself be loved again, even if it was by someone else? It broke his heart into a million pieces to think of how much pain he was putting her through, and how much more would come her way if the day unfolded the way he was pretty sure it was going to.

Not that he'd given up hope; not entirely, but the grizzled old warrior in him knew that things weren't exactly looking good.

He was starting to lose it, he accepted grimly, as he tipped his head back against the wall, his whole body begging him to lie down and take a break. And lying down sounded awfully appealing right about now. How good would it feel to rest for while, to close his eyes, take a brief nap...so very, very tempting. Already, he was fading in and out; the searing agony that was his entire left side had simmered down to a low-level throb, and that was a bad sign. It meant that blood wasn't flowing to his head regularly, and his oxygen deprived brain was no longer receiving impulses from his nerves like it should.

No one could say he hadn't picked up some things from Bones along the way.

But the fact was that he'd also seen a lot of people leave this earth against their will, and he knew the mechanics of death by heart. His body was starting to shut down.

Pictures of the people he loved, some of them already gone, paraded through his head as ever bleaker thoughts got the better of him. Parker; his son was no longer a boy, but not anywhere close to being a man. Booth could at least take comfort in the fact that his boy would be left with a clear memory of his dad, but he'd given anything to be there for Parker during those rough teenage years, to help guide him through the treacherous minefield of choices that lay ahead. And to be able to teach his kid about what it meant to be a real man; about loving and protecting those close to you, owning up to responsibilities and mistakes, making a difference for the better in this world.

And poor Pops; hearing the news might be the last straw for the old man. He'd just lost his son-and this, this might very well kill him. He was sure that Bones would look after his grandfather in his place, and that was a good thing because Jared-well, Jared invariably had his issues. But thinking of Pops made him regret that he hadn't checked up on him the last couple of days. If by some miracle he got out of this alive, he'd call right away and give his Pops a proper, heartfelt thank you for filling up those empty shoes that his dad had left behind.

Hard as it was to avoid going there, Booth knew that all this talk of death wasn't good for morale; he needed to switch the tenor of his thoughts to something less depressing, fast, because neither he nor the other two hostages could afford his mind's unfettered detour into this bleak, bottomless pit. He was still alive, even if he was barely hanging on, and with life, any amount of it, always came opportunity. He went back to what some nameless army psychologist assigned to one of his units had once told their group right before a mission and which he, arrogant and 20-something year old know-it-all that he was, had out-and-out dismissed as garbage.

_If you're ever stuck in a hard place and you need to still your mind and find focus, try envisioning a happy place, a place that makes you feel safe. Once you find it, stay with it until your focus returns._

How utterly ridiculous had that new-age mumbo jumbo sounded back then on the battlefield? But now? All he needed was that simple prompt and his thoughts were already well on their way to her, with no conscious effort at all. An image of Temperance Brennan, _his_ Temperance Brennan, with her striking features reflecting the indomitable fire of her spirit, the generosity and honesty of her heart, immediately replaced the ugliness that had been there before.

Bones was _his_ happy place.

Before her, there there'd been little by way of shelter in his life. A few cherished Christmas memories with his family, some good times with Pops, Parker. Beyond those intermittent highlights, the pool halls and the casinos. They had managed to keep his mind off the chaos that was always one step away from swallowing him whole for as long as he was betting, but afterwards, those pastimes left nothing behind but guilt and self-loathing.

Beyond that? Only vast killing fields and an unstoppable treadmill of the worst things that one man could do to another.

Until he met her.

There were many things in his life, pure things, that had come to be sullied by experience, but his love for Bones remained as pristine and untouched as the first warm day in spring, just like her. She was what he always came back to, time and time again. Even with distance and other people between them, she'd never left his thoughts for long, not since that day he'd set eyes on her in that overcrowded conference hall. Because he knew-then and now. Bones was his happy place; their home, with his family in it, was where he felt safe and at peace, where his soul became whole and innocent again. Regardless of how trite it might sound to anyone listening, he'd repeat it a million times over because it was true: she was everything to him,_ everything_, and the possibility that he'd never get a chance to see her again…

He finally gave himself fully over to despair; crushing, crippling, all-encompassing. About her, about his unborn child-and maybe that last thought was the worst part of all this. Realizing that he would never get to hold his daughter or feel her tiny fists curling around his fingers.

A girl; he'd always had a soft spot for them-girls _were_ nice. It struck him as funny and more than a little bit ironic that he already had his old gruff man routine laid out, for when the boys were lining up at his door waiting to take her out. And if she looked even remotely like her mother, they would come by the truckful, of that one thing he was sure.

No doubt that his girl would be smart, and beautiful and headstrong, just like Bones-and he wouldn't get to see her grow up. Right now, that was just about the most cruel, and by far the loneliest feeling in the whole world. His eyes misted over with tears born out of naked frustration, just as his heart and his willpower began to run on empty.

Maybe this was the true meaning of hell: being completely cognizant of all the amazing things you were going to lose right before you lost them. Much as he'd hoped to go to heaven when he died, he was starting to accept the possibility that heaven might not be for him after all, not after the terrible things he'd done, kept doing. Could this be a preview of his eternal punishment for taking so many lives? Having all these miraculous, sought-after things within reach that would never be his to enjoy?

_I confess to almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have greatly sinned, through my own fault, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do, through my fault, through my fault… Have mercy on us, O Lord…_

It was a while before Booth became aware that his hand had fallen to his lap, and he automatically pressed it back against his wound. Was the pressure even doing any good? It had certainly done nothing for Vincent Nigel-Murray-sad, sad kid. He never let himself look back on the fact that his happiness with Bones had been born in a funeral pyre of sorts, that things might not have turned out the way they had between them but for that fateful afternoon at the lab when a young man's life had ended well before it should have.

Maybe it was time to pay the piper for that. Almost eight months of sublime joy, and a daughter on the way; he wouldn't trade them for anything-not even for an extra day on this earth. But to lose it all like this, leaving his loved ones without his protection when they needed it the most…

Dark and desperate thoughts for dark and desperate times, as the present lost its meaning engulfed by a tidal wave of exhaustion and sorrow, the will to live fading with every single drop of blood that oozed down his shirt.

"Private Booth!" The drill sergeant's harsh bark ricocheted inside his head from somewhere in his past.

"Snap to it, Private Booth! Are you a quitter, son?" The voice was contemptuous, uncompromising, just like he remembered. "Because if you're a quitter Private, you have no business being here with the rest of these soldiers."

"No sir!" he answered back, the muscles in his forearms and biceps burning, groaning, trembling uncontrollably from the long set of push-ups that had followed the end of the grueling obstacle run.

"Then give me another fifty. Make that another hundred. I wanna see what you're made of, Private. I wanna know if you have what it takes, if you have the right amount of fire in the belly. Because if you don't, I don't want you near the rest of my boys. I don't want them counting on you, and you quitting on them 'cause you can't take it. So you wanna quit son? Your arms are giving out, they're shaking like cats left out in the rain; so you go ahead, give them a rest. You don't have to do no more reps if you don't want to; you can just go home to your mama and your nice, comfy bed. Make this easier on you and me, son."

"No sir!" he grunted back. "I'm not a quitter, sir!"

No sir, not a quitter; he wasn't a quitter.

Not then, not now. And he _had_ people who were counting on him, both inside this room and out.

_Dig deep, Booth, dig deep and find something, anything at all, _his mind bellowed, rallying him back to attention. He might die trying to claw his way out of this fucking warehouse, but he wouldn't give up, ever.

It wasn't over until it was over.


	28. A Picture's Worth

_My apologies to all for the delay-my family and I are bouncing back from the plague. Is winter over yet?_

"Hodgins, please tell me you have something; anything. I'm getting really freaked out about Brennan," Angela said conspiratorially.

She was sure she had kept her voice to a whisper as she stooped over her husband's shoulder, but Hodgins still almost jumped out of his chair when he heard her, surprised and not too happy about finding his wife so close to his ear. How the hell was a person supposed to concentrate with all these interruptions?

He appreciated where Angela was coming from, he really did; but that didn't make the hovering and the palpable pressure being put on him and Cam by the rest of their team any less disturbing. It seemed like someone kept asking for something every other minute, and it was impossible to work efficiently under these conditions.

Angela had stopped pacing back and forth just long enough to plead her case, but the nervous energy leaping out of her in spades her kept making itself felt in other ways; in the repeated chewing of the fingernails, the frown lines that kept creasing her forehead.

And definitely the hovering. She couldn't help it.

Because she _was_ worried about Brennan; although she'd finally gotten her friend to eat something, however meager and overly-processed it had been, Brennan had hardly spoken a word since returning with her to the van over twenty minutes ago. That state of mute introspection was just plain wrong; the forensic anthropologist had never quietly taken a backseat to anyone before, ever, especially not in a scientific setting. It went against everything in her nature, and it was supremely weird to be witnessing that unnatural display of meekness.

"It's coming, babe. It's coming" Hodgins replied with something close to abrasiveness. "It's delicate work here-I may be the king of the lab, but I'm not a machine, you know" he said impatiently, still on pins and needles from his wife's unwitting sneak attack.

Angela backed away, looking a little hurt.

"I'm sorry, Ange," her husband said in a more conciliatory tone. "I know you're worried for Brennan and for the people in that building, and I know-_believe_ _me_, _I know_-our time is running out. But you just can't rush some things and people bugging us all the time isn't helping. Here, I found some stuff, though" he offered by way of a mending of the fences. "Maybe that'll give you guys something to chew on while Cam and I keep working on the rest."

"Go ahead, please; anything to take Brennan's mind off the clock."

Hodgins smiled and squeezed his wife's hand reassuringly.

"This is what I have so far, people" he announced, swiveling around in his chair to face the other staff members. "Make of it what you will. I've found traces of human blood embedded in the particulates we brought back-they must have been picked up by Grant's shoes. I've been able to identity just about every blood type under the sun; positives, negatives, rh factor, you name it. There's got to be a clue in there somewhere, right?"

"Maybe, unless the blood came from his victims," Cam replied, looking up from her tiny desk.

"Already checked; the victims were primarily Os and A positives, one B negative this morning. Besides, don't you think it's highly unlikely he came that close to them all without the police noticing at some point? I'm kind of thinking this morning was just an anomaly. I'm no shrink, but my guess is that his little stunt was an unusually gutsy move for him; part of his recent reinvention as a "bigger and bolder" kind of guy aiming for the big finish.

"You're probably correct, Dr. Hodgins" Brennan said, breaking her self-imposed silence and surprising those who had almost forgotten she was still there. She put down the orange juice that she'd been quietly sipping and looked at Hodgins thoughtfully.

Angela's prior scolding had the unintended but decidedly beneficial effect of turning into a wake-up call of sorts for her, and she felt more centered, and definitely more productive, than she had since the start of this whole hostage ordeal. Removing herself emotionally from all that was going on had taken a 180-degree turnaround in perspective that she didn't think she was any longer capable of, but after repeatedly bullying her heart into submission, she finally felt in control again. Her impassive demeanor wasn't just a brave façade put on for the benefit of her coworkers, she told herself; it _was_ her, the real Temperance Brennan. The scientist that made up her core icy and rational and able to compartmentalize, to disassociate under extreme pressure, like always. It had hurt, really hurt, to take Booth and their new relationship out of the equation, and she figured that doing so would haunt her later, but for now, she was doing what needed to be done. The job was all that mattered.

She continued theorizing about the meaning of Hodgins' discovery.

"If Grant didn't pick up the blood traces at the crime sites, that means that he must have come in contact with the wide range of hematological types through some other means; perhaps at his workplace, or at the location where he set up the second set of explosives, assuming this wasn't just an empty threat on his part. I believe that this new information could potentially help to narrow down the bombing targets we're looking for."

She took a deep, long breath, alternately welcoming the return of the real Dr. Brennan, and feeling sad, maybe even mournful, that the woman who was just starting to blossom as a human being was locked back inside her little box. But she couldn't deny that all in all, it was better to have this intellectual chasm separating her from all the terrible things that were happening around her, things that had been much too close to home to make rational thought possible. It made things…simpler; for her and for everyone else.

She was already ruing the unintentional slip from before; not so much because it had been so out of character for her and therefore deeply mortifying on some level, but because she feared that it might have adversely colored her colleague's current view not only of her as a professional, but of any contributions she might be making to the case in the near future. That unhinged, irrational person crying in front of Angela wasn't her at all, not really; it had been a stranger, an unwanted visitor who had no business being anywhere near these other scientists.

And someone who needed to be kept at arms' length, at any cost.

So what to make of Hodgins' findings, she wondered. Grant was a sniper, a handyman, a loner. He must be living in the area to have become so familiar with his shooting locations and escape routes, particularly the Pinkham Warehouse, and his current place of employment must have allowed for prolonged absences.

Despite all her mental effort, it didn't take her long to accept that they just didn't have enough to go on. This new information was certainly a start, but not nearly sufficient, like being in possession of a single jagged piece belonging to a hundred-piece jigsaw puzzle. No one, not even she, could get a coherent picture with so little to work with. The reality was that they were still a long way off from being able to provide any solid leads that the FBI could act upon. There were just too many variables still, too many open-ended questions for them to form any workable conclusions, and she slumped back into her chair, all her earlier optimism gone.

She was about to ask Angela whether they'd gotten anything else on Grant's background, when a somber Hacker appeared through the door of the station looking less like a man in charge, and more like a traitor being led before a firing squad. _That_ particular conclusion, Brennan feared, was inescapable; it was obvious that Hacker had absolutely no desire to be there right now, and that he was most likely only making an appearance out of a sense of obligation.

It wasn't a good omen.

"What is it Andrew?" Brennan asked, when the agent stopped just inside the doorway but seemed reluctant to offer up any information.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, looking at Brennan with what she could only describe as dread. He seemed demoralized, like he'd had the wind knocked out of him.

"You asked me to tell you if anything happened. He called."

"Who called?"

"Grant-he called from Booth's phone-dialed me directly."

"What did he want?" Brennan asked, with a hitch in her voice. Those compartments she thought were back in place suddenly didn't feel so watertight anymore.

"Actually, nothing-he didn't want anything. He called to say what we were already assuming-that he placed explosives somewhere else, somewhere where there would be a lot of casualties if they went off, and that he could detonate them whenever he wanted. He repeated what he yelled to our guys in the hallway; if we go after him, he'll blow the other place up. I guess he wanted me to hear it directly from him since there's so many HRT guys running around outside. I think we've got him spooked."

Cam finally asked what they were all unavoidably thinking about, but none had the courage to bring up.

"The hostages? Any information on them? How did he know to call you? One of them must have given him your name."

Hacker looked at Brennan once again, and she felt her heart drop.

"Andrew-what is it?" she asked, fighting the urge run as far away as she could from the trailer before he could answer. She could feel her quickened pulse beating against her ear drums as another contraction, as sharp and attention-grabbing as the one before, came on again, causing her to ball her hands tightly into fists to brace herself against the spasm. It passed.

"He claims the girl's okay, but he wasn't too specific about our guys." His eyes were evasive, and Brennan knew immediately that he wasn't telling the whole truth.

"His precise words, Andrew; I want to know _exactly_ what he said" she commanded. "You promised."

Hacker shook his head wearily, a tired, cornered man, too exhausted to run from the looming confrontation.

"Okay, but before I go on, I swear to you that he didn't mention any names, Temperance" he began, extending his hands in a gesture of openness, as if to highlight the fact that he wasn't lying. "He said that two of our agents were still hanging on, 'more or less,' but that our tech team would be working overtime to clean up the uh…" he looked away, unable to hold Brennan's gaze; "…the brains of the third guy off the floor" he finally let out. "He said he wanted us to know that he meant business."

While the others did their best to contain their expressions of horror at the awful image those words stirred up, Brennan didn't as much as blink. She felt…different. Calm and removed from the conversation, as if she were watching a performance instead of the real thing; the dialogue and interactions going on onstage unreal and fabricated, like the words on a script. She had the distinct feeling, just for a second, that as soon as the final act came to a close, the curtain would descend and they would all exit this theater of the absurd and go back to their normal lives. She could picture her and Booth together at home, sitting on their couch, his hand over her belly feeling for a kick; and finding one, his face lighting up with joy and surprise, like it always did no matter how often that same moment had happened before between them.

"That _could_ mean anyone, Tempe, not just Booth" Hacker explained, taking her silence for panic. "As to how he knew to call me, he didn't say."

"How do we know he wasn't bluffing? The guy's a crazy, mean bastard, and he loves screwing with us. He could be lying," Hodgins suggested.

But something in Hacker's countenance told Hodgins and the rest of the crew that the FBI insider was holding something back, a piece of evidence that probably corroborated all that the killer had bragged about but that was too depressing to share.

Brennan could feel it too; she looked up at Hacker, her eyes unwavering, determined.

She needed everything.

"There's more than just that, isn't there?"

Hacker looked around uncomfortably as if pondering whether to tell or not, before he finally succumbed to the obvious anxiety poorly hidden behind Brennan's expressionless face.

"I'm afraid so; he sent a picture. A picture of two feet hanging in mid-air, with a pool of what looked like blood collecting underneath. It was pretty…telling. Graphic, to say the least. And the time on it was 4:40, today."

"I want to see it."

"You can't figure out who it is from the photograph, Temperance; our guys already tried. I really don't think…"

Brennan held out her hand, and Hacker unwillingly gave her the phone.

The silence in the crowded room seemed to amplify what they all were feeling; the fear that hung in the air like some poisonous miasma, the lurking specter of death, waiting to pounce at the first show of weakness.

Refusing to waste time, Brennan scrolled through the phone, moving her thumb around its surface until she found what she wanted. She ripped off the metaphorical band aid without giving it a second thought and focused on an image, and Angela couldn't help but say a prayer for her friend because no matter what Hacker thought, Brennan would know who the person in the picture was, especially if it was her partner.

"It's not Booth" Brennan finally said, closing her eyes and relaxing her shoulders as a wave of relief washed over her. "It's not him."

She handed Hacker his phone back.

"I'm sorry to have to ask you this, Tempe; it's not like I would ever doubt your word, but how can you possibly be so sure?" Hacker asked. "The picture's kind of grainy-you really can't make out the shoes or the suit too well."

"It's the socks," she replied, full of conviction, irrational as she was willing to admit that certainty was. "Booth never wears dark socks. He insists on wearing those silly striped ones, even to work."

The old Brennan, the one who felt her heart wasn't capable of opening up enough to let anyone in would have shied away from using the word "never;" but the new one, the one who loved Booth unconditionally, didn't hesitate to say it.

But just how sure of that detail _was_ she, a niggling voice in the back of her head asked. She hadn't actually seen him get dressed this morning, had she? Because she had bulldozered her way out of their house before he even had the chance to dry himself off.

But he always wore the striped ones; _always_-another all-or-nothing word, another tipping of the hat to the person she had become-so why would that change today? It wasn't Booth; it simply wasn't Booth.

And with that stubborn pronouncement, a pronouncement which left no room for argument, the walls were firmly back in place.

"It's not him," she repeated to Hacker, compelled by the need to assure not only him but herself as well that this was so.

No one in the station had the heart to contradict her.

Hacker smiled uncertainly. "Well, I'm glad for you that you think it's not Booth. Listen, I've got to go," he said, lunging at the chance to get away from her.

Brennan understood, and part of her felt sorry for Hacker; it was always difficult to be the bearer of bad news-_she_ certainly wasn't any good at it, god knew- and that had never been Andrew's forte anyway. Booth, on the other hand, Booth would have known exactly what to say to make her feel better.

He always knew what to say, she thought back with bittersweet fondness, and she was really missing that part of him right now. She was missing everything about him actually, both the good and the bad-and there simply was no way of getting around that deep-seated void, no matter how hard she tried. How soon until she knew whether that feeling of longing would be a temporary or permanent state for her?

Unhappily, not much longer; not much longer at all. The questions, the fears, the anger, these might go on indefinitely from this day on forward, but time was the one commodity that unfortunately was in very short supply. They could all feel it slipping away, like grains of sand through a child's stubby fingers, one irreplaceable minute at a time.


	29. Daisy

"Thank you Andrew; I appreciate your candor. If he calls again…"

"I'll let you know, Tempe; you can count on it. You guys keep at it here" Hacker said to the rest with a wave. "Our best chances of getting into that room and reaching the remaining hostages alive still rests with locating those explosives. If we can take them out of the equation, we can move on to the warehouse without that noose hanging over our heads. We've done everything we can to jam the radio frequencies around the building, in case Grant has a remote detonator on him, but we can't be sure that'll be enough. We can't do much about cell-phone access, and _that_ could be the trigger, so we definitely need to get to the bomb to avoid any accidents."

As soon as Hacker was gone, Cam turned to Brennan.

"I'm not just saying this to make you feel better, Dr. Brennan, but I think you're right that it's not Booth. It makes sense that if he took Booth's phone, he would have asked Booth whom to call, and those shots we heard happened way before 4:40. So for whatever its worth, I agree with you."

Brennan managed a spiritless smile in return, and Angela felt her friend's mood wavering somewhere between skepticism and hope as she processed Cam's borderline too-good-to-be-true argument. Angela herself found she could add nothing more to the mix; Brennan was razor-sharp when it came to picking up on platitudes; as socially unaware as she often was, she could generally tell when people were saying things just because it was the nice, compassionate thing to do and she would deconstruct those comments along with the commentator with a ginsu knife accordingly.

Now that the unexpected disruption in their schedule appeared to be over, Cam and Hodgins went back to decoding the rest of the evidence. They were doing their best to ignore the huge burden pressing down on them while the others stood by, continuing their mostly silent vigil. But the relative peace that followed Hacker's departure turned out to be brief. The sound of his steps was still echoing away when Daisy, her face streaked with tears, slammed open the door of the trailer and ran in.

"They just told me; they just told me about Agent Booth and Lance," she practically shrieked. "Why isn't the FBI going in there to get them out? They could be hurt; they could be dying!"

She broke down again as the members of the Jeffersonian team looked at each other awkwardly, everyone suddenly realizing that no one had thought of notifying Sweets' girlfriend of the crisis. There was just so much else to deal with and Daisy, well, they weren't proud to admit that Daisy's presence they often took for granted, if they didn't altogether go out of their way to avoid. But the luckless woman deserved their support, and they all felt the collective weight of shame stemming from the oversight.

"Ms. Wick, I'm so sorry," Cam offered. "Everyone is doing what they can. The FBI has reasons for not going in there right away. I'm afraid that for the time being, the suspect has the upper hand; we're trying to even the playing field for our guys."

"Not Lance-not my Lance;" Daisy went on, mindless of Cam's explanation. "He just passed his FBI entrance exam, just got his badge. He was so proud that he was going to be just like Agent Booth. And I encouraged him to do it; I thought it was so cool and sexy-it's my fault…and now he's going to die. Maybe he's dead already. I just heard that one of the agents was dead-it could be him..."

Angela noticed that Daisy was having a hard time getting enough air between sobs, hyperventilating more and more as time went on, and the artist began to fear that the young woman was in danger of passing out right in front of them.

Daisy's whole body trembled as the crying intensified, and Angela finally stepped up, putting a supportive arm around her. If she couldn't help out in any other way, she could at least play den mother to the staff and keep those around her as steady as possible.

"It's not your fault," Angela reassured Daisy. "Sweets has wanted to be an FBI agent for a long time. Besides, we don't know whether anyone's even hurt in there-it could all be a set-up on Grant's part. As far as we're concerned, Sweets, Booth and the other two hostages are still alive and kicking, and we're all working on getting them out" Angela continued, troubled perhaps only slightly by her selective version of the unfolding story. Daisy didn't need to know about that picture on Hacker's phone or about the things that Grant had said; not now anyway, she resolved.

"Are you alone? Did anyone drive you here?"

"My sister," the intern stammered between tears. "When she heard about it on the radio, she called me and then she came over to the Jeffersonian and picked me up. No one would tell me anything until I came here, but I knew something was wrong right away, because Lance wasn't picking up his phone. He always picks up the phone when I call. She's outside near the car."

"I think it would be a good idea if you went with her and waited by one of the safety stations-it's too crowded in here, and Hodgins and Cam need as much breathing room as they can get in order to do their thing," Angela suggested.

"But I want to help" Daisy pleaded, wiping her eyes as she tried putting on a brave front. "I want to stay-Lance _needs_ me."

"Ms. Wick, Daisy," Cam broke in impatiently, unable to take the time-wasting back and forth any longer. "Please don't take this the wrong way, but right now, you're too distraught to be of much help here. Later, if you feel more composed, you can stop by and see if we can still use your help. If you're _really_ determined to offer some assistance, you can speak to one of the interns at the Jeffersonian on your cell and have them fill you in on what we've got so far, and you can put in your two cents worth through them at the safety station. _At the safety station_, where there's more room," she reiterated firmly.

"But Dr. Brennan is here" Daisy countered with an obstinate pout, and all eyes turned to the forensic anthropologist sitting by herself in the corner. "I pride myself in being just like Dr. Brennan," she sniffed. "If _she_ can be objective and productive with Agent Booth stuck in that building the same as Lance, so can I."

Brennan felt the surreptitious glances of two of the FBI technicians in the station trained on her, and right after, she caught a look of understanding pass between the pair. She was sure that they were silently judging her, probably wondering how on earth she could possibly remain so outwardly calm, so rational, when her life partner was hours, maybe minutes away from dying, with no resolution in sight. The comparison between her and Ms. Wick's behavior must be jarring to anyone witnessing their differing reactions.

As much as she wanted to, she wasn't able to find fault with their likely censure.

The entire incident reminded her once again of how much of an alien she still was in the world despite the appearance of normalcy that had come with her newfound life with Booth; of how much of a social outcast she had always been and still remained even when so much else had changed for her. It was easy to forget around Booth, who always took her idiosyncrasies in stride and who she knew seldom saw her through anything but rose-colored glasses. But here, without him, she was just Dr. Temperance Brennan, not Bones; to put it bluntly, brilliant but a freak of sorts, a side-show attraction to those who didn't know better.

"Yes, that's true, but Dr. Brennan is" Cam faltered, and she looked away from Brennan to Daisy; "different," she concluded benignly. Thinking that perhaps it was time to improvise, Cam tried channeling Sweets on the rest.

"Dr. Brennan's lived through many intense experiences both personally and professionally, and as a result she's been able to develop a psychological technique that allows her to hold on to her scientific objectivity under even the most extreme conditions." As she spoke, Cam felt that she was treading in very dangerous waters now, and she paused in her explanation to sneak a peek at Brennan, who was watching her with interest. "It's a very rare and valuable gift," she continued more confidently after finding her stride again, "and we're all extremely grateful for it. But you're still young, Ms. Wick; you've lived a relatively sheltered life, and it's unfair to expect that kind of separation between your mind and your feelings given what's happening with Dr. Sweets. Please don't do be so hard on yourself. We all here absolutely _need_ to be focusing on the facts and the facts only, and we can't do that if we're worrying about you. We'll let you know if anything changes. Alright?"

After looking around the room with a wounded expression, Daisy reluctantly caved in, nodding sadly.

Poor Daisy, Brennan thought; and poor, poor Sweets. She was appalled to admit that the psychologist's fate had hardly crossed her mind all afternoon. But Sweets was a good friend, one she felt a degree of almost maternal affection for, and he deserved to be in her thoughts as much as Booth-she just couldn't bring herself to add one more worry to her already precarious mental and emotional balancing act.

"I didn't mean that the way it sounded, Dr. Brennan" Cam said by way of reparation as soon as Daisy had left with Angela to find her sister.

"It's was a perfectly valid assessment, that I'm different" Brennan replied without resentment, and Cam could detect a certain dejected inevitability in the offhand observation.

"Denying that fact would be tantamount to denying that the earth revolves around the sun. I assure you I didn't take offense, Cam."

She looked past Cam, and the FBI technicians had the good sense to turn away, embarrassed after being caught staring a second time.

"Anyone looking at me right now would be justified in questioning the depth of my affection and of my concern for Booth, especially if you compare my behavior to Daisy's highly emotional display over Sweets. I realize that most people think I'm extremely cold and that perhaps I suffer from a lack of empathy-and maybe they're right. Maybe I _am_ missing some basic character trait that everyone else has if I'm able to successfully divorce my thoughts from my feelings while this particular situation is going on."

Cam opened her mouth in disbelief, doing a double-take when she heard Brennan's harsh self-assessment.

"I'm sorry, but that is just plain ridiculous, Dr. Brennan" she blurted out frankly. "And may I also add that Booth would be the first to vehemently disagree with you; he, along with the rest of us, understands that appearances can not only deceiving, they quite often are. Hand wringing, hair-pulling and wailing aren't the only socially acceptable expressions of empathy and concern available to people, unless you happen to be a mourner at a wake back in the old country."

Brennan seemed mired in a swamp of negative thoughts, and Cam reached for her hand, determined to pull her out.

"Dr. Brennan, no one who really knows you would ever think any of that about you, and there also isn't a single person who's seen you and Booth together who would doubt your devotion to Booth or your love for him. So what if you're not your traditional hand-holding, pda prone couple; you're adults, not children. Even so, we can all still see the sparks between you crazy kids from a mile away. There were never two people more willing to do more for each other than you and Booth, and that was before you became a couple. Now that you're together, well, now the sky's the limit on that one."

"But Daisy was so visibly upset, so grief-stricken. She was clearly not in a position to act in a professional manner, and yet I'm still here, functioning at close to my regular intellectual capacity despite what's happening to Booth."

"Everyone is entitled to grieve in their own way, even you, Dr. Brennan. Besides, it doesn't matter what anyone else in this room thinks; Booth is the only one that matters, and he knows how big and empathic your heart is better than anyone else. Listen, you're just every bit as agonized by what's going on as Daisy; it's obvious to anyone with eyes on their head. If you want to know what the real difference between you and Daisy is, it's that Daisy has already given up and you haven't. You're still fighting, scratching away at whatever you can to get a win for Booth because you would never be satisfied letting anyone else take over this case for you. You understand that you're the best at what you do and that Booth needs you, needs your skills and your brilliance, now more than ever. _We_ need you. So no more indulging in these completely unproductive and unnecessary comparisons between you and Ms. Wick, please."

A brief smile appeared on Brennan's face, but there was still an overhanging cloud there that Cam couldn't quite figure out.

"Thanks Cam; it's just…I was so angry at him this morning. Even though we temporarily patched things up, we never really had an opportunity to work things out. I think that's why I'm so angry still; I feel guilt over our disagreement and over the possibility that there might never be an opportunity to repair whatever damage was done."

"You and I both know that a squabble here and there hardly takes away from years of commitment, and you did in fact make up; that's why you were here with him today."

"If he hadn't been trying to smooth things over between us, in essence trying to cater to my demands by bringing me along to a crime scene, he might not be facing death right now. He probably would have simply gone home with me instead and his safety wouldn't currently be an issue."

A light went off inside Cam's head, and she suddenly saw the problem for what it was: guilt. How hard must it have been for her colleague to openly admit to the possibility that but for her, Booth wouldn't be in trouble? Those misplaced feelings of guilt must be eating away at Brennan from the inside, making everything else even tougher for her, as if things weren't already tough enough.

Suddenly, Cam felt very protective of the all-too human, vulnerable woman in front of her, the one who had just willingly shed her armor and was hurting deeply and openly in a way Cam had never seen her do before. She reached out to the scientist in the only way she effectively knew how: by addressing the blatant errors in her friend's logic.

"Temperance, he probably would have ended up here, with or without you; this was his case, and I hardly think he would've felt comfortable delegating this crucial evidence-gathering part of the sniper investigation to Sweets, a brand new, inexperienced agent. In any event, determining causality and effect is a very tricky business as you are well aware of, being the first-rate scientist that you are. If you think about it, it's actually lucky things went the way they did; imagine the consequences if Grant had seen Booth first, knowing he'd be recognized and arrested. This warehouse might be just a pile of bricks and guts right now. And please don't disregard the fact that Booth's presence and his quick thinking helped to avert what could have been a tragedy of catastrophic proportions. It's not something any of us can dismiss lightly, especially not me or Hodgins or the dozens of other innocent people who were up there when you guys showed up. And that same fate that brought Booth here today might surprise us yet again. Besides, Booth is one hell of a resourceful guy, in case you forget."

Whatever turn they were taking, the anthropologist kept her thoughts to herself this time.

"Don't give up now, Dr. Brennan; I'm sure Booth hasn't" Cam urged, the emotional, honest appeal coming straight from the heart and delivered with total conviction.

"I won't, not on him" Brennan replied quietly, after letting Cam's words find a resting place inside her crowded mind.

"Not until I have incontrovertible proof that Booth is no longer alive."

_Lord help us all if that day ever comes_, _but especially Dr. Brennan,_ Cam thought grimly.

* * *

_Booth is up next, I swear! Thanks to all of you for your encouraging reviews; they really do keep me going, more than you'll ever know. And thanks especially for sticking with this long, long story. It seems to have acquired a life of its own at some point. Maria_


	30. Held Back

_I apologize beforehand for any mistakes I didn't catch-my computer was acting loopy, and I figured it was best to get this out while I still could. A little long, but I hope you won't mind, since Booth hasn't been on for a while. Happy weekend!_

* * *

As his eyes flickered open, Booth realized that he had no clue how much time had gone by since he was last truly conscious. Point of fact, he didn't care; the energy it would have taken to give a crap about that sort of managerial stuff was desperately needed elsewhere. Too spent to even look at his watch, he was still finding new and ever more torturous ways of keeping up the losing battle he had going on with his body to force it to stay upright because given the choice, it would have slid into a horizontal position long ago. Get it over and done with, it pleaded between labored breaths that were shallower than a baby's. His entire was frame was starting to shiver uncontrollably, his head jerking from side to side periodically in an attempt to lessen the unbearable strain on the muscles of his neck and shoulders.

Rest in any form, either for a few minutes or until the second coming got here, was sounding like the best thing in the universe just about now.

The coughing had really begun in earnest, and of all things, that was possibly what he was hating on the most at this particular moment. Whenever a fit came on-and those fits were showing up at shorter and shorter intervals-he wound up spitting out gobs of blood along with what little saliva he had left. His whole mouth was awash with the pervasive taste of iron, no matter how often he wiped his mouth off on his filthy sleeves. He'd given anything, really anything, for a drink of water, just to get that vile metallic film off his tongue.

As much as he'd been skirting the issue for a while, he was slowly coming to terms with the fact that the situation had most likely gone well beyond the salvageable stage; assuming that help came their way eventually, as it surely would, it would still be far too late for him. There was no getting around it-he was choking to death, his heartbeat diminishing as the dizziness and general disorientation grew more pronounced. A little longer, and it would all be out of his hands. And he was cold-freezing, as if ice crystals had taken up the space where his insides used to be. The whole dying thing would be getting a big thumbs-down from him if the subject ever came up for review.

Whatever was the point of holding on any longer? He'd sworn he wouldn't be giving up until his last breath escaped him, but after taking a good, hard look at all the evidence and shining that same harsh spotlight on his ebbing expectations, he finally had to admit that he was in fact already in the process of letting it all go.

_The Lord is my shepherd,  
I shall not want;  
He makes me lie down in green pastures.  
He leads me beside still waters;  
He restores my soul.  
He leads me in paths of righteousness  
for His name's sake._

_Even though I walk through the valley_  
_of the shadow of death,_  
_I fear no evil;_  
_for You are with me;_  
_Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me._

_Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me  
all the days of my life;  
and I shall dwell in the house of the  
Lord forever.  
_  
There was some measure of comfort, he supposed, in letting his imagination wander through that beautiful, quiet landscape that his favorite psalm so perfectly depicted; contemplating the possibility that he might soon be walking there himself-if God saw it fitting-because his body was so incredibly tired and his brain was wiped out and he had nothing, absolutely nothing left to work with.

He wanted to leave; he was sure he was ready, and yet...this whole walking-towards-the-light-thing wasn't quite doing it for him. Because even after trying to lose himself in the soothing images of that timeless prayer, the one that Pops had made him and Jared say every night before bedtime alongside the required "Our Father" and which he had repeated quietly over dying comrades as they slipped away, he still couldn't find the peace of mind he needed to grab his bags and go for good.

Deep down it bugged him that there seemed to be something he was forgetting, some loose end that he needed to tie up. It could have been the voice of his guardian angel whispering in his ear or his own bedraggled subconscious talking, but it all came down to suddenly being flooded with the absolute certainty that this particular mission he'd been entrusted with wasn't over, and that it wasn't his time-not yet-not until he could tick off this final item from his life's agenda.

Never been smooth-sailing for him, ever, so why would he expect things to change at the end of his life?

But just what the heck was it that he was supposed to do?

Irrespective of what his body wanted, _needed_, his watered-down thoughts insisted on taking him back to the conversation he'd had with Grant right after he got shot. What was it that Grant had said? That he had a back-up plan; Grant said he had a back-up plan, and that's why he wasn't angry when the Pinkham scheme didn't work out the way he expected.

So was that it-the thing that was holding him back, chained to what was left of the body of the once proud Seeley Booth? To figure out what that other plan was? It seemed like kind of pointless task, really, if that's what God was saving him for. If he ever got Grant to talk, and that in itself was one big, bad if, how in the blazes was he supposed to get any of that information out to the guys downstairs-by carrier pigeons? Punch-drunk with exhaustion, he contemplated doubling over with laughter as he thought of flocks of birds with messages tied to their little bird feet flying out the broken windows in one fine, choreographed sweep, but he caught himself just in time. The pain resulting from that ill-advised move would've been unreal.

He put the brakes on the weird daydreams currently making the rounds inside his head. The information; he had to get that first. Sending it out? He'd save that one tiny, insignificant detail for later. One impossible task at a time was all that he could deal with for now.

Looking over by the windows, he saw that Grant was still listening to that stupid radio with a wide-eyed expression of pure, unadulterated ecstasy on his face. He reminded Booth of a heroin addict, riding high on some juiced-up flying carpet, oblivious to the world around him. Their killer was soaking up every new report, every interview, every ounce of speculation surrounding the stand-off, and the news outlets were continuing to cater to his need for more, one hyped-up detail at a time. They were sticking to this story like glue it seemed, unwilling to relinquish their hold on it except for the occasional commercial break, with their avid pack of reporters wringing every last ounce of drama out of the event. The listening audience must have skyrocketed over the last couple of hours.

It was a veritable marketing bonanza for the ad division.

Hearing the voice of a smug and familiar local anchorman, he was reminded once again of why he hated reporters so much; their exaggerated concern often coming across as just a front for their rapacious need to uncover the goods and deliver them to the guy writing the checks. And the more sensational and more heart-wrenching the story, the more bird-dogging it took to get it, the better it probably looked on the old resume as they climbed ruthlessly over each other on their way to the top.

What could he have possibly been thinking, dating and then almost marrying one? Rocks in his head, or repeated brain trauma; those were the only explanations he could come up with.

Next to him, Kaylie was still in her terror-induced trance, rocking her body gently back and forth mechanically. As for Sweets, his junior partner was still in exactly the same position he'd been in when Booth last checked on him.

Oh, and for the record, he himself still felt like death; still bleeding, still sweating and shaking, still nauseated and ready to throw up at a minute's notice.

But although things looked the same on the surface, inside, something fundamental had changed for Booth. Sometimes, all you needed was a little change of perspective to make you see a problem in a radically different light.

"Grant," he made himself croak out loud with a renewed sense of purpose. It brought on another fit of coughing, along with another helping of blood that had to be spat out.

"Well, lookee here, and I thought you were already six feet under. Honestly, I'd almost forgotten about you, you were so quiet over there. Is there something I can do for you, Agent Booth?" Grant asked, with almost teasing deliberation.

"Actually, you know what? There is. it's killing me here, not knowing what else you have up your sleeve" Booth replied hoarsely, after managing to squelch most of the coughing. "Earlier you said something about a back-up plan."

The man nodded slowly. "I did."

"I think it's pretty obvious that I'm not walking out of here with a heartbeat, so you mind sharing? Kind of like giving a man on death row one last cigarette? I got nothing else to look forward to and I'm getting kind of bored."

Grant took his time thinking about Booth's request. Tilting his head appraisingly, he finally shrugged his shoulders in what looked like agreement.

"Sure; I don't see why not. Because you're right about that, Agent Booth. There's no way the way you're looking that you'll ever see the sun again. You're already a dead-ringer for a ghost, my friend. And it'd be kind of nice to share with someone, when it comes down to it. I thought I might be able to squirrel my ass out of here when this thing started and get to see it all go down with my own eyes, but I gotta be realistic here; that probably ain't happening. Not with the Feds planted over every square inch of this place. And it's genius, really, what's coming next; I can't help it, I'm really proud of myself" he went on with a crooked smirk, and Booth caught a glimpse of maniacal fervor in the man's pale eyes. "That's why I brought the radio, to hear all about it on my way out. The city's never seen anything like what it's going to be getting soon-well, not since those guys blew up the Pentagon. But given that I can't fly a plane, this is the next best thing."

Booth wished that the delusional pain in the ass would just put a sock in the whole self-congratulatory speech and make his point already.

"So?" he prodded.

"Boy, you're impatient; but I guess you're running out of time, aren't you? Alright. My original plan was really, really good; too bad you messed it up for me-but that's how it goes sometimes-we all had to deal with unexpected contingencies like that in the military. I know you're the best, so at least I can die happy knowing that it took the best to screw me over. Okay, so say this place had blown up with everyone in it, like it was supposed to. Where would the casualties go?"

Oh God; and just like that, Booth knew-he knew where the other explosives were hidden at.

"I can see from your face that you already figured it out. You're sharp. Yup, a hospital; an emergency room, if you would like a little more precision. Your boys are coming in by the dozen in bits and pieces, getting rushed by ambulance to the trauma centers, and wouldn't you know it, there's another little surprise waiting at one of them. If you want to know the truth, that's what I've been stringing the FBI along for-it's not because I think I can get out of this place alive. Even without this old warehouse biting the dust and sending casualties everywhere, emergency rooms are always packed after hours, and I just really wanted to hear all about it before it was over for me."

It made perfect sense to Booth now; the scrubs, the bag, the talk this morning-they weren't just part of an act. Grant really did work at St. Michael's, although Booth seriously doubted that it was as a resident. More of an orderly, janitorial type in all likelihood. The serial killer knew that St. Michael's and Washington General were the closest hospitals with trauma centers in the area; all the victims from the warehouse explosion would invariably end up there, like they had this morning after the shootings at the mall, and like they had after the movie theater incident. And it would have been easy for Grant to set a bomb in a place he probably knew inside and out. Booth himself had been at St. Michael's, staring at Officer Morracone's body on that gurney, and he shuddered at the thought that all that time Grant might have been surreptitiously looking over his shoulder, watching his reaction.

But he had to hand it to the guy-what better way to cap off the 'party' that was supposed to begin at Pinkham's? An emergency room full of first responders, going through triage, their lives cursed a second time by Grants evil hand.

He was itching to get confirmation on his hunch, but in that line of inquiry lay one hell of a quandary for Booth. Any more questions, and the next step of the plan that was just beginning to coalesce in his mind would become impossible, because no way Grant would fulfill his one last request if Booth knew too much. Throwing another hail-Mary pass and hoping he was right about St. Michael's, he let it go.

It might be too late for him, but maybe not too late for those other people.

"Why you doing this, man? Why you so frickin' angry?" he asked, subtly changing the direction of the conversation so that Grant would have less of a reason for suspicion later.

"Why? Seriously, since when does anyone care what I think? Don't make me laugh" Grant said spitefully, and Booth could feel the almost limitless resentment trickling through the reply.

"_I_ care. Humor me."

"C'mon, admit it; you're just buying time, Agent Booth. You don't really give a crap about what's going on inside my head. You wouldn't have asked me that question yesterday or this morning, when I was just a nameless nobody. I'm not an imbecile, I think we've already more than proved that."

"I just want to know why I'm going to die" Booth answered truthfully. "It's a reasonable request, don't you think? Wouldn't _you_ want to know? I was out in those same combat zones as you-I know what it does to a man."

"Yeah, right, same as me," Grant replied with sarcasm. "But here in the real world you're an FBI bigwig throwing your weight around, not an orderly stuck cleaning vomit off floors or emptying bedpans full of shit, are you?"

"Sometimes people get lucky; they get breaks. It's not always a reflection on the person."

"And sometimes they don't. And that's why we're here-I'm not relying on luck or on getting breaks and breadcrumbs from strangers ever again. They thought I wasn't good enough. Not the army, not the cops, not even the god-damned fire department, _the fire department_, can you believe it? Like they're some kind of holy grail of clubs that you have to be a saint to belong to. Not even all those fucking women-the only thing that was good enough for them was my money. Well, I'm finally living up to my potential on my own terms, and it turns out that my potential is far more vast and impressive than anyone gave me credit for. You're all going to be playing by my rules this time, not the other way around. Who's sorry now?"

The hatred coming off Grant's voice filled the room with its unrelenting bitterness, and Booth gave up on reasoning with the man. There was no connecting with him on any level. He would press for one more bit of information, and then he'd leave it alone.

"What time is this thing supposed to happen-you got a remote detonator, or what?"

"Nah, can't work those things-too unreliable. Nice old-fashioned timer for me. Sometimes the simplest things in life are the best, don't you agree? As to time? It's set for seven; that's more than an hour away, so I got to keep stringing your boss and his monkeys along 'til then. As long as they believe that I can take care of business from here, they won't mess with me. And no way after all this hassle am I missing the news when the story breaks. The one here was originally set for 5:00. I would have had it go off earlier, but all this talk of more agents coming up threw me off my game-you really got me on one of my biggest weaknesses; it was too tempting of an offer to pass up on. I should have figured that if it looked too good to be true, it probably was. Great maneuver, by the way. Clever, very, very clever-and sneaky. Let me guess, you came up with it."

Booth didn't answer, and Grant went "hah,'" pointing at him. "Knew it. So, aren't you going to ask me just what hospital they're at?"

"I'm done;" Booth replied carelessly. "I'm too tired to think about that anymore. On my way out, I just want to think about my kids and my girl. You met her," he offered up casually as bait. It was with a feeling of revulsion that he brought up the topic of his personal life, but it was all he could come up with to move things forward. "She was here earlier; she's a forensic anthropologist-she's also my work partner."

"Really-she was here today? Wait a minute, the brunette with the long hair, the one I was talking to who came in with you? Get outta here!" Grant said, obviously thrilled at the discovery. "That was her? Really?"

"Yeah. That's her."

"You lucky dog-she's something else; I watched her get out of the car with you earlier. She's pregnant, I could tell even from up here. Gotta make a little confession; I almost took her out right there and then from one of the other rooms on this floor-my fingers were twitching like crazy. I can't tell you how much I loved the coverage that other girl got me."

Booth felt a shiver travel up and down his spine as he remembered talking to Bones outside the SUV, arguing with her over the water bottle as they waited to be led into the building. What if Grant had given in to his first impulse while he was wasting time with her, oblivious to the silent predator watching overhead?

"But she was such a looker, and I had bigger stuff to deal with. That would have deep-sixed the rest, or at least the part with the warehouse. You two married? I don't see no ring."

"We were planning on getting married soon" he lied, not exactly sure why. But he sure as hell wasn't discussing the matter with Grant.

"The baby, huh? Too bad for you then, buddy."

Booth licked his lips before making a run for it.

"I'm going to ask you for a personal favor, Grant; I'm willing to beg for it if that's what it takes, and I'm asking from one soldier to another, not as some FBI guy."

"Shoot."

"She and I-we had a fight this morning. Something stupid, but I can't stop thinking about it. I don't want to leave things that way with her. I want to tell her that I'm sorry, and I want to say goodbye. Think you can let me talk to her for just a couple of seconds?"

"What, after the little chat about the hospital we just had? Are you kidding?" Grant replied contemptuously.

"You can put a gun to my head and pull the trigger if I even come close to saying anything about that. You'd have me down long before I got the information out, I'm not doubting that for a second. This isn't what this is all about, I swear on a bible. She's all I got, and I can't leave things with her the way I left them this morning. I'm never going to see her or my kids again. If you were dying out on the battlefield, I'd do that for you. I'd probably do that for you right now, if our roles were reversed."

"Well, maybe you're just a better man than I am. No can do."

At least he'd given it a try, Booth told himself by way of consolation, his last remaining hopes dashed into pieces by Grant's unequivocal refusal to give him what he wanted. Now there really was nothing left hanging around for, and he closed his eyes again, wishing he could block off his ears as well to avoid the grating noise of the radio. What an irritating way to make his exit, with all that non-stop drivel in the background-he prayed that the endless yammering along with the occasional crack of static wouldn't follow him into whatever place he was going. _That_ would be as close to hell as it got.

He opened his eyes out of habit because they were stinging like crazy, and was surprised to find Grant crouching over him.

"Find me her picture. If you guys are together like you say, really together, and not just working as partners, I want to see proof."

He handed Booth the phone as he put a gun against his temple, the barrel cold and unforgivingly hard against his clammy skin.

"One even remotely iffy move and it's all over, Booth. No games, no tricks. I'm not in the mood."

Booth scrolled through a set of pictures, until he came to one that caught his eye. The thought of showing it to Grant made him ill, but really, what else did he have going for him? In the image, Bones was wearing his FBI t-shirt, pulling it up part-way to reveal a growing belly. She was in her violet lace panties, her feet tucked beneath her on the couch, smiling lopsidedly into the camera after having been dared into the sexy pose by him. They had been playing around when he took it, and she was definitely in a flirty mood, as her come-hither look would vouch for. He remembered every single second of that moment, how happy and carefree they had both been and how fabulously the evening had come to an end, with them taking their sweet time making love on that very same couch. He had intended to delete the semi-racy photo from his phone and store it in a safer place, but he just couldn't help himself, she looked so beautiful and so full of life in that picture, carrying _his_ child, her impish, knowing smile for him and him alone.

Every so often when he was feeling less than great and there was no one else around, he would pull out his phone and take a quick look to remind himself of how good he had it, and that whatever else was going on that was weighing on him didn't matter.

So this was the one that he settled on. He couldn't think of any others that would put Grant's mind more at ease, that could possibly showcase any better the intimate nature of his relationship with Bones. But that didn't mean he didn't hate himself for sharing that image, one that was so very private and so close to his heart.

He handed the phone back.

"Wow, Grant whistled, clearly smitten with the picture. A lascivious smirk followed all too quickly. "Nice. Guess most co-workers don't let you take pictures of them in their underwear. God, she's beautiful-look at that perfect, smooth skin everywhere, that smile. Too bad she didn't have the shirt off, cause I'm sure the rest would have been even better. You don't have any more…revealing pictures of her, do you?"

Booth bit his tongue as his fists unconsciously clenched, and then relaxed after a brief internal struggle. _Don't mess with the plan Booth-don't antagonize him by saying something stupid._

"No. That's it. Unless you want to see one of me kissing her; I can give you that too."

Grant made a sour face.

"From one soldier to another, huh? It's a low blow, going there, Special Agent/Army Ranger Seeley Booth; especially knowing like you do how much I looked up to you in the army. Okay, I'll give you that much, but I get to talk to her first. And if I don't like what you're saying, I'm going to blow your brains out like I did with that other friend of yours, right in the middle of your conversation. Imagine how well that's going to sit with your girlfriend. And to top it all off, I'm going to send her your picture post-bullet, and it won't be of your feet, like the one I sent to your boss of that other dude. Your choice, pal."

"Okay. I get it;" Booth replied, barely containing his growing irritation at all the lecturing. "I told you, it's only going to be to say goodbye, and to give her some instructions about the kids. That's it."

"It better be. What was her name again" Grant asked, looking through the contact list on the phone. "Oh wait, wait; I remember, because it was so weird. Temperance-here it is-Temperance Brennan."

Booth watched warily as Grant pressed the number, trying not to jump out of his skin as he heard the phone ring once, then twice, on the speaker.

"Booth?" he heard her ask in an agitated voice.

"No Temperance, it's me, remember? The guy in the county jumpsuit talking to you earlier today. We had an interesting chat, you and I. Too bad you got called away. I would have liked to talk with you for a while longer."

"I remember you" she said icily. "Where's Booth?" She was trying to stay calm, but Booth picked up on the smattering of fear in her voice as she asked the question.

Of course; it hadn't occurred to him that she had no way of knowing whether he was still alive or not. What an awful thing for her to be going through, especially now. He hoped that someone was at least there with her, preferably either Cam or Angela.

"He's here-he wants to talk to you. I'm giving your boyfriend a final chance to make things right between you two, just so you know I can be nice. I'm going to be listening in though, so no loaded questions, you understand? Or the last sound you're going to hear from him is a bullet cracking open his skull."

"I understand."

Even though his teeth were beginning to chatter non-stop from shock and a growing case of nerves, Booth made an effort to settle down, taking a deep breath to find his center while simultaneously holding out his hand out as steadily as he could to take the phone back.

The unthinkable had come to pass; he'd been granted his wish, and he knew that he couldn't afford to make a single mistake because there wouldn't be any second chances-each and every word coming out of his mouth had to count. Making a mental sign of the cross, he took the phone.


	31. Last Call

_Hi guys, just a heads up that because of spring break vacation, this will probably be my last post for the next two weeks. I swear I'm not abandoning the story though-wouldn't leave it like this for Booth and Brennan!_

"Bingo!" Hodgins exclaimed, pushing himself away from his desk with a slight flourish and breaking everyone's concentration in the process.

He spun around on his stool to find several pairs of expectant eyes trained on him.

"You got something."

As was often the case when she was talking to her staff and to Hodgins in particular, Cam delivered her statement with a raised eyebrow and more than just a hint of amusement. The quirky entomologist was a personal favorite of hers despite the messy experiments and the frequent damage to valuable lab equipment and occasionally even to museum exhibits, though she preferred to keep her compliments to an absolute minimum. Having a class pet was not only frowned upon in professional circles, the man really shouldn't be given any further encouragement to destroy their workplace, even when he did it with such childlike glee.

But she certainly felt free to admire his handiwork in silence.

Hodgins was nothing short of a Renaissance marvel in Cam's eyes, pulling rabbits out of hats that looked completely empty to lesser mortals; holding on to his wicked resourcefulness and can-do attitude no matter the circumstance, even when a mountain built entirely of guilt, big-time stress and questionable evidence like they'd been dealing with all afternoon was threatening to landslide on top of them, burying them all like ants under tons of dirt and rubble. Given the opportunity, she would gladly trade in her title as head of the Jeffersonian's forensic department to be in on the big secret, because sitting there helplessly looking at Brennan and the asphyxiating noose she could see wrapped around her colleague's heart, Cam herself felt practically brain-dead.

A zombie, just going through the motions, with a layer of lead coating all those tiny, vital synapses inside her brain that made thinking outside-the-box possible. Or _any_ kind of thinking, for that matter.

How on god's earth did he do it then, she wondered?

Definitely king of the lab she conceded, the one-and-only Jack Hodgins. Find a way to bottle up and market all that loose energy, and you'd never have to work another day in your life.

"Yup, I do have something, but don't get too comfortable just yet," he answered, unintentionally bringing down the level of excitement in the station a few degrees. "I'm not quite sure what it all means. I'm detecting some very powerful industrial disinfectants mixed in with the flecks of blood; not the kind you would use at home. Also plenty of what appear to be rather interesting bacterial strains, although without culturing the little buggers-which is impossible within a few hours no matter how much I cheer for them to get it on, I can't identify the exact type. But I can tell you that even in their partially dehydrated state they definitely don't look like like everyday germs under the microscope, whatever they are. Grant might have been working in some type of institutional setting based on these results."

"Think people, think" Cam urged, tapping her fingers vigorously on the counter of her workstation. "If you were going for a big finish, where would you put your bomb? Probably somewhere with a lot of people, right? Where they use particularly effective disinfectants?"

"That could be anywhere" Angela replied, her hopes deflated now that she'd heard Hodgins' report.

It wasn't entirely his fault. Her husband was an exuberant guy who always spoke as if nothing were ever beyond reach-by now she should know better than to be jumping up at every pronouncement he made. But still, she figured they'd be getting a little more mileage out of the "bingo" business. All that initial hoopla had the built-in potential of something they could really sink their teeth into, and at the moment, she just wasn't feeling any of it.

"A pool, a kid's park, a skating rink," she ticked off without enthusiasm. "People fall and hurt themselves all the time in public venues, and it all gets mopped up at the end of the day with water and a fancy bottle of Lysol."

"I believe that the traces of blood in combination with the industrial disinfectants and the unusual bacterial levels would narrow the places down considerably, if we assume that they came from the same source-the injuries would have to be numerous and of relatively recent origin in order to account for the wide range of blood types still detectable in the particulates from the shoes" Brennan argued. "Furthermore, the targeted location would most likely have to be accessible to the public during the evening, if we go on to infer from the circumstances and the killer's own statement that an explosion is imminent."

"We don't know when it's set for or whether Grant even controls it anymore-we could be stuck in this holding pattern 'til morning gets here, when people are going back to work" one of the FBI technicians countered.

Even though she wasn't entirely swayed by Brennan's logic about the timing of the hypothetical explosion, Cam could still find some moral merit in granting her friend that much.

"The morning's a long time to be waiting for results when you're holed up in a place without heat or water and the Feds are all over you, looking for that one window of opportunity to open even a crack so they can take you down. I see your point about the blast probably happening sooner rather than later and I tend to agree with you, Dr. Brennan. Oh, and given the high bacterial levels and unusual strains Hodgins found, I would definitely include clinics and hospital on the list of possible targets-after all, emergency rooms are open all night."

Wendell's voice interrupted the heated discussion via the station's webcam.

"I'm sorry to be a killjoy by adding more to the pile, but it could also be a train station, a convention center, a sports or concert arena-lots of blood and disinfectants there, and they're open late. Sports places in particular can harbor some nasty bugs."

Angela grabbed her laptop and began typing as fast as her fingers would let her.

"Sizeable crowds and late business hours-let's start with those first. I'll see what big events are scheduled for tonight in the metro area, and also which hospitals and clinics are relatively close by. I'm assuming we should stick _to_ the area, right, and not branch out?'' she asked, turning to Cam.

She would never own up to it, least of all in front of her subordinates, but the query made Cam wonder whether she still had the balls to make the kinds of decisions that her role as boss demanded of her today. There were too many options on the table and not nearly enough arrows showing you which one to go with-an old-fashioned Ouija board would have come in handy. Whatever choice she made on behalf of the Jeffersonian crew would have some kind of repercussion down the line no matter what she went with, and with two of her friends and countless strangers depending on her judgment, having that kind of power frankly scared her stiff. Was this the sort of thing that went through Booth's mind whenever he was on duty? When he'd talked to her in the hallway just a few hours ago? She supposed that today's events were giving her an extra dose of appreciation for both the man and the job, even though she'd been a cop herself and had plenty of admiration for Booth and his profession already.

For her, personally, narrowing down the number of places that the FBI would be looking at meant that others would be taken off their list and ignored. What if despite her best intentions she sent the staff, and by default, the investigators, down a dead-end street? What if it cost Seeley and Sweets and that sixteen-year old their lives? Or maybe even the lives of more than just those three people?

"Cam?" Angela ventured hesitantly.

"Yeeesss…we better stick to the environs of DC first and the bigger, more popular venues" Cam finally replied, nodding slowly as she took those first uncertain steps on what felt like very slack tightrope and moving forward on blind instinct alone. "And then go from there in concentric circles outwards to the cities that are the closest, if nothing around here sounds rights. I suppose it's a stretch, but we have to start somewhere."

"You should also include large hotels and major restaurants in your search, Angela-all would have access to industrial disinfectants; the blood could have come from a kitchen area," Brennan added.

Whatever anyone else thought, she knew she loved Booth wholly and without reservations, and she no longer felt under an obligation to make some type of grand, dramatic gesture for the benefit of others; the work she doing on his behalf was all she cared about. She was determined to find Grant's target so that the FBI would be free to deal with the sniper once the explosives were no longer a concern. Until that happened, her remaining energy would be directed towards achieving that goal and nothing else, even with the stultifying amounts of guesswork that the job entailed.

Guesswork, unfortunately, that she hated with a passion and that didn't come easily to her.

Hunches, darts thrown randomly in the dark, flying by the seat of the pants-all methodologies she had consistently dismissed a waste of time and resources but that she was now forced to rely on.

What else was there? The rules she was accustomed to operating by had changed drastically over the last few hours, and she'd have to adjust accordingly. If playing along with Cam and the others meant being able to take her mind off the clock and off Booth's fate for as much as a second so she could think more clearly, she would go ahead and try those alien strategies on for size.

"Dr. Hodgins, please hand me the results of the analysis you have so far on the particulates; perhaps I can more accurately pinpoint a specific location from your findings."

No sooner had Hodgins handed over the printout to Brennan than Flynn walked into the station. All activity-including Angela's furious internet search-came to a full stop.

"Agent Flynn, do you have any news?" Brennan asked, before Flynn's feet had even fully crossed the threshold.

"Actually, I was just about to ask you the same thing. We've been checking up on all the leads we have, but it's been like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. No phone records, no addresses, nothing that can help direct us to a place of employment. It's as if Grant fell off the face of the earth after he left the military. I went over the notes from the investigators who were supposed to interview the witnesses this morning, including the suspect, but apparently they either missed him, or he slipped away before they could talk to him-figures, given our luck so far. I know Booth said he was dressed in scrubs, although that could easily have been a disguise to allow him to get closer to the action. The footage that our experts reviewed from the mall cameras don't show a man fitting the description that Booth gave us; apparently, our guy was very careful to stay out of the limelight. We're calling hospitals in the area to see if they have anyone by the name of Ted Grant working there, but we've got to be realistic about this-its already past five. Reaching anyone in personnel at this hour anywhere is going to be tricky. It might take time."

Brennan pressed her lips together as she tried to remain civil. _Time, time_...it all kept coming back to that, didn't it? Over and over, it always came back to that. She was starting to really resent not only the message, but the messenger as well. How often had she come across those words today? Five, ten, a hundred? If she heard that excuse one more time she decided angrily, she was going to go the hackneyed route and scream at the top of her lungs.

Swallowing the bitterness that had been on the tip of her tongue because Booth's colleague was bending over backwards to help and he shouldn't be subjected to her scathing remarks just for being honest, Brennan began patiently pointing out to Flynn that the Bureau needed to be more proactive even if it meant harassing personnel administrators at home, when her phone rang. Startled by the noise, she reached into her purse and rummaged through her things trying to find it, before she finally yanked it out with a look of infinite annoyance. It couldn't be Hacker since Flynn was Andrew's liaison with the Jeffersonian and he was already there talking to her, and right now she had little interest in hearing from anyone else.

Whoever it was could wait, she decided moodily, and she was about to decline the call without giving it another thought until a cursory look at the caller id made her stop mid-act. The name on the screen read _S. Booth_.

Her free hand shot up right away, brusquely motioning for silence.

"Booth?" she asked hurriedly. There was a good chance it wouldn't be him, she already knew that; but it didn't keep her from hoping all the same.

It wasn't Booth; Brennan's heart immediately turned to stone when she heard the killer's cloying voice instead of that of her mate's. She let Grant indulge in some small talk before gathering the courage to ask him about her partner.

"Where's Booth?"

_ "He's here...he wants to talk to you."_

The instructions that followed that incredibly powerful disclosure made little sense, lost as she was in the small victory of knowing that Booth was still alive. As best as Brennan could follow though, Grant was telling her that he was going to allow Booth to make things right between them one last time.

One last time...the phrase with all of its terrible implications made her wince.

Grant went on to warn her against trying to get any information out of her partner once he came on the line, or the consequences for him would be immediate-and catastrophic.

After a moment of silence during which she could feel her heart vibrating erratically inside her chest, she heard Booth's voice.

"Bones..."

S_till alive, still alive_...Brennan closed her as she wrapped her trembling hand around the phone, positioning it closer to her ear. Despite the audience circling around her, it was just the two of them now, her and Booth, same as always; and whatever happened next, she would always be thankful to the universe for granting them that moment. She had so many things to tell him, things that he should know, that he deserved to know and that maybe she hadn't quite gotten across to him before.

"Booth, I..."

_"No; don't say anything Bones-just listen to me, please?"_

She could barely make out what he was saying, because his voice was distant and incredibly worn; little more than tired whispers. But it wasn't until she heard the cough that she realized what a precarious physical state her partner was really in. She immediately diagnosed a build-up of fluid in his lungs from the way he was wheezing, and she could only imagine how difficult it would be for him to utter even a few words if one of his lungs had been pierced by a bullet, as she was beginning to suspect had happened earlier that day.

That second shot they'd heard coming from the warehouse had almost certainly been for Booth.

"_There's no time; no time"_ he continued between gasps, and she heard the faint "click" of Grant's gun cocking in the distance. The killer was monitoring every word of their conversation just as he'd promised, and she worried that any perceived slip on Booth's part might result in the pull of a trigger.

_"I wanted to tell you that I love you-always, since the beginning. You've given me so much, Bones... and no matter what happens today, I'm going to keep on loving you, from wherever I'm at. But I also want you to be happy, to find someone else-to keep moving forwards with your life, not back, okay? Never back-remember what you told me about evolution, Bones. Do that for me, okay?"_

There was another pause and as the seconds flew by she began to panic, thinking that he wouldn't be coming back on. When he finally did, his breathing was even more labored than before and she was sure that he wouldn't have the strength to finish his message.

_"I'm sorry about this morning-about everything. Tell the boys, Parker and little Vincent H., both of them, and our little girl when she gets here that I love them, and that I'll be watching over them, and that I'm so sorry I couldn't be there to see them grow up."_

In the background, she could hear Grant harshly telling Booth to end it. Booth's voice grew more desperate, as he apparently struggled to hold on to the phone.

_"I gotta go. All my things, I want the boys to get their share," _he continued, his words careening into each other, making them more difficult to understand.

_"You know, it's all at their uncle Mike's house, including my Army Ranger things and my saints' medals. Get them from him real soon, before they're gone-you know how he is. And Bones?"_

"Yes?" she said, as her mouth went dry.

_"Don't look, okay-I don't want you to look. Promise."_

The call ended without warning, before she had a chance to give him her answer.


	32. Sense and Sensibility

_Hi guys-you were probably expecting some big action sequence after all this time, but I felt drawn to something a little more moody and introspective because I was exhausted after spring break with the kids; I'm really hoping you won't be too disappointed with this chapter._

_I love you._

She kept holding the phone up to her ear, long after the call had forcibly come to an end.

_I love you._

That was twice-twice today that he'd said the same thing to her and twice that she hadn't said it back. First in the car when they were driving away from the Jeffersonian, because there was still some residual resentment left in her-make no mistake, justified, all off it-over the whole Cam incident and besides she could always say it later, when she felt like expressing that sentiment with a little more conviction. And now, because in fact there was no room left for the later that had always been within such easy reach up until this afternoon.

She'd be the first to admit that it had taken her a long, long time to catch up with Booth when it came to verbally displaying her affection for him.

How many times had he told her that he loved her before she felt secure enough in their new relationship to say it back? Before she was able to accept the full extent of his feelings for her, or hers for him? If sleeping with Booth had required an unheard of leap of faith, binding herself to him with those commitment-riddled, weighty words demanded not a leap, but an Olympic-sized pole vault over an invisible, mile high obstacle-the formidable Temperance Brennan herself, with her seemingly unshakeable belief in the impermanence of personal relationships. And all conveniently gift-wrapped in an off-putting, bow-topped package that reeked to strangers of haughty, know-it-all reserve.

Until Booth had come along, no one had been brave enough to open up that box and take a look inside to see, not a woman made of steel and intellect, as everyone thought, but a damaged adolescent covering herself in the proverbial emperor's new clothes.

Fear masquerading as logic; after hopping in and out of the sack with him for weeks and letting his "I love yous" wash over her psyche like a balm, she had finally managed to place a finger on what it was that was keeping her silent, holding her back. And she was in her rights-absolutely, one hundred percent in her rights to feel that way-because once those words were out in the open they couldn't be taken back without causing a world of damage. It was better for Booth for her to stay quiet than to create expectations in him that couldn't ultimately be met.

Never mind that she had pretty much known how she felt about him from the very beginning of their courtship, months before they ever made love for the first time in his bed on the night that Vincent died.

It's just that it had taken her brain some extra time to catch up.

She could recall with near perfect clarity the first time he told her he loved her. An admission that felt more like the desperate confession of a dying man than an actual declaration of love, made on the run as he was leaving early that morning to chase after an unrepentant Jacob Broadsky.

Then as later on he had asked her not to repeat them, that he had no real need to hear them.

Booth had certainly given it his all with his brave smile and his "let's save something for later" speech, but she'd seen through him, just as earlier that night she had seen through herself.

She knew perfectly well what he was doing; that he was sparing himself from the possible disappointment of knowing that she might not be in even remotely the same place that he was. Or perhaps sparing her from the humiliation of having to spell out that she didn't love him in the quite same way that he loved her.

Either way, she had felt relief that morning, not only because she now knew where he stood when it came to her but also because he had essentially given her carte blanche to define their relationship. He was conveying to her in his own way that regardless of the strength of his feelings, he was willing to give her some time to work things out for herself. She'd never been an "I love you too" type of girl, parroting without further deliberation whatever line any given man she was currently with felt like using in order to win her over. And acting on instinct as he always did, Booth was quick to step aside and let her figure it out on her own.

Feelings were transitory, after all; weren't they? A night or two or even ten or twenty did not a great love affair make-look at many of the picture albums gathering dust on the top shelf of her closet. She had been one-half of more than a few smiling couples that existed now only within the pages of a scrapbook. But what about seven years? Was that long enough? Seven-plus years spent building a bridge between two people so wounded and so unlike one another that the resultant structure should be heralded out in the open for what it really was: an amazing, almost unbelievable feat of emotional engineering; truly one of the great unheard-of wonders of the modern age.

He had said it many times since they'd gotten together, but his second "I love you" was the one that up until this last call, she had probably valued the most. Because there had been no mad rush to run off and save the world, no possible feelings of guilt or obligation lurking as a motive, and most definitely nothing for her partner to gain.

It happened on the Monday following Vincent's death.

After having spent Saturday night together again and almost all of Sunday-the bulk of it, save for their joint attendance at Parker's soccer game, in bed, the time for saying goodnight had inevitably come around.

The prospect of a busy Monday morning at work and the complicated logistics of clothes and showers had finally been enough to bring her, and probably him as well she hoped, to her senses.

It was time to leave-alone. They were both way more in need of sleep than sex at this point and there was no possibility that if she stayed over they wouldn't go down that road again.

Absolutely none.

The part she hadn't given any real consideration to was how hollow and sad she would feel after he unwillingly dropped her off at her apartment. None of it made sense. Everything was the same inside her place as it had been when she stopped by for a change of clothes on Saturday, and she was still the same woman from before, although perhaps not quite as unattached as she once thought she should be. But the difference in her perspective as she strolled into her living room realizing she wouldn't be seeing Booth again until tomorrow had been astounding. Because now she felt...different.

Incomplete, in some way.

And lonely.

Maybe she just needed a little more time to process things. And decidedly more time to sleep.

The more she dwelled on it, the more she was convinced that sleeping eight uninterrupted hours in her own bed would dispel all of her moodiness. What she was most in need of was rest, she told herself, and as speedy a resumption of her old routine as possible. Pajamas, bed, alarm clock, shower, chai tea with a drop of agave nectar and bowl of muesli, a ride in a car she didn't feel too guilty about driving, her lab coat and work, in that exact, reassuring order.

Except for the one little inconvenient detail that no routine could have possibly prepared her for the torture that lay in store for her on Monday.

Because even with all that routine built into it, the day had been impossibly long.

Between the unbearable sexual tension enveloping her and Booth as they both tried skirting around their overwhelming mutual attraction and Angela's sidelong glances and her nonstop dropped hints, the day had crawled along with the speed of a snail on sandpaper. To make matters even worse, there was also that strange moment when Booth stopped by the lab, ostensibly to drop off some paperwork but most likely to be near her, and she had turned into a human flare. Booth noticed immediately and went the extra mile in order to cover for her, tripping over small talk with the interns while she recovered. The exchange had not gone well.

There wasn't a single person at the Jeffersonian who didn't know that Booth didn't like talking to the "squints" if he could help it, and Brennan noticed how both Mr. Edison and Mr. Fisher had looked at each other with curiosity and alarm when the overly friendly bantering began, almost as if they were concerned that Booth was on the brink of-to use an expression she had picked up from Hodgins-"going postal."

When grilled about that particular incident, Angela had sworn with a smirk that both she and Booth had done "just spiffy" and that the interns were still as completely clueless as ever, but even though she wanted nothing more than to believe that rosy view of the incident, Brennan had been unable to take her friend's word at face value. They absolutely had to do something if they weren't going to wind up as the sole topic of conversation at the Jeffersonian's water cooler for the next few months

Though ultimately none of that could compare to the discomfort of actually working side-by-side with Booth out in the field. Trying to remain completely focused while you worked next to the very same man who had just spent the last two days pawing at you hungrily while you did the very same thing to him...decidedly impossible, all of it. She couldn't even look at him without picturing him stark naked-and, well, some other highly erotic images came to mind following rather quickly on that train of thought. Apparently she wasn't the only one operating under such duress. She was convinced by the way he kept his eyes averted the whole time they went about their day together that Booth was right there with her, feeling just as uncomfortable as she was.

When the day finally came to its natural conclusion, they both headed back to his place without even discussing it first. Why bother? At least no one could label either one of them a hypocrite-she knew what she wanted, he knew what he wanted, and they simply went for it without further preamble. Unlike that first time when she had only come to him for support, there was no hesitation at the door to his bedroom on her part, no gentle reassurances about the hidden meaning of a dying intern's words on his. Getting into bed and tussling around in it was all either of them cared about, or would frankly care about, for at least the next few hours.

He did end up feeding her somewhere down the road, but that only further fueled her over-all, marrow-deep exhaustion.

"We can't engage in this kind of spontaneous behavior during work days, Booth" she said, yawning. "We both need to catch up on work and personal things in the evening, and if we continue acting as recklessly as we did today, we're inevitably going to start making costly mistakes the following day. I probably shouldn't even come over tonight" she said, unintentionally sounding regretful about their hook-up as she helped him put the last of the dishes into the sink.

He looked stung.

"Okay-I know. You told me that earlier; too uncomfortable, too complicated; keep work and personal separate" he replied, repeating almost word for word her what she had lectured him about that morning, proving that he was perfectly capable of listening to her when he wanted to. "Only on weekends. I get it, I get it, even if I'm not exactly hopping for joy about it."

Booth sighed wearily and took her hand. "I'm sorry, Bones" he said, losing the cavalier attitude. "I know you're beat. Let's say this was a special day. Freaky Monday, weird, like one of those three-eyed frogs Hodgins likes to collect; we won't let it happen again" he finished with his tongue shamelessly in his cheek as he drew his arms around her, doing the exact opposite of what they had just agreed on.

"Now you're making fun of me" she said, her brow wrinkling in disapproval, "because you know I was equally culpable in making the decision to stop by your place. But I'm serious, Booth; even if we somehow manage to keep our relationship from being front page news at both the Hoover and the Jeffersonian, which after today seems rather unlikely, this kind of impulsive behavior on workdays, highly satisfying and potentially addictive as it is, could have a harmful effect on our job performance on the following day. Perhaps even dangerous results, if our professional judgment is negatively impacted because of it, as it's bound to be. I'm sorry, but I truly believe it's prudent to be intimate only on weekends. We agreed on that already, right?" she asked, as a note of doubt crept into her voice.

"Sure, sure we did" he replied, holding her closer. She could feel the heat of his body on hers, and her hormones suddenly started racing out of control, promising a rather hasty retreat by her brain from the current field of battle. Her body was betraying her, and as far as she was concerned, that was a completely unacceptable state of affairs.

She put her hands up against his chest, pushing herself away from him with a little jerking motion.

"I...I have to go, Booth. I have to be in early tomorrow; all my clothes are at home, I have to shower in the morning. I haven't even touched my computer or looked at my e-mails..."

"Uh huh" he replied mechanically, closing the distance between them and lowering his head to nip at the base of her neck with his mouth, obviously deaf to her eminently reasonable arguments.

She was a total liar and she knew it; no matter what she was telling him, she had absolutely no desire to leave his apartment. But she really felt drained, beyond drained; he had to be as well. To be so lacking in willpower that you couldn't make yourself walk away from a situation that you knew was detrimental to you simply because it felt good and you wanted more of the same was not the behavior of a mature, responsible adult.

She snuck a peek at him. His eyes had taken on a glazed, dreamy look, and his expression had lost some of its earlier playfulness. She shut her eyes and let herself relax against his body, and he wrapped himself more tightly around her, kissing her gently on the cheek right by her ear, nuzzling against her neck softly. And as he began to stroke her thumb with his, pulling gently on her hand, unconsciously leading the way back to the bedroom, she felt ringing throughout her body the primitive cry to stay, a powerful mating call as old as the oceans.

"Don't go" he said, his warm breath tickling the fine, downy hairs all along her jawbone. "Stay just one more night, Bones. Just one more" he went on in a drawling, husky voice. It would have been unbelievably easy to melt into the softness of his t-shirt and slide her hands under it to find firm, smooth skin covering an unyielding expanse of muscle, to pull that shirt off in one fluid, uninterrupted move, to reciprocate that inebriating kiss in that very same, heady way.

"Booth..."

Standing this close to him...it was incredibly confusing, like being under the influence of a strong and debilitating opiate. It made her feel both euphoric and unbalanced, and she was no longer so sure that she wanted to go.

But she knew she had to.

Trying to find her metaphorical spine, she finally blurted out a resolute "I can't."

"I'm sorry; I need to sleep in my own bed tonight. The wise thing for me to do is to leave as soon as possible. Staying overnight would set a very bad precedent for our relationship, and once patterns become established, they're very difficult to break. Being a recovering gambler, you should know that."

As he took a step back, already beginning to back down without a fight because he knew she meant business this time, she was given the incredibly rare opportunity, the gift or the curse, depending on how you chose to look at it, of seeing things for how they really were. How he was stripping away every last layer of pride by asking her not to walk out that door, taking the ultimate hit to his ego by letting her see how much he wanted her, even knowing that she would probably turn him down no matter what and head back to her place. And as bad as she felt about doing it, she chose to take a hard line and stick to her guns; it wasn't logical to go with any other choice.

And maybe there was something else there as well. Getting that unexpected glimpse into Booth's soul, sensing that maybe it reflected exactly how she felt-terrifying, all of it, and way too sudden.

"I have to go. I do; staying makes no sense whatsoever."

He finally let go, shrugging his shoulders as if he were completely fine with her decision; probably trying to salvage what was left of his pride by brushing off her rejection without looking too broken up about it.

The alpha-male was back.

"I didn't mean to push you, Bones. I'm being greedy-to be honest, it's because I kind of missed you last night. Bet you're thinking that I'm already turning into a pain in the butt, aren't you? Forget that I even asked. Besides, you're right-you're always right-you're the smart one" he said, giving her a lopsided smile. "We're totally better off being on our own during the week. At least let me drive you home."

"No-there's no need for you to do that, Booth; it's late-I'll take a taxi. I'm sure I won't have any trouble finding one. You live very close to a major intersection."

He didn't look too happy, but he didn't press.

"Alright, but I'm waiting with you. It's dark out there and this isn't the best neighborhood, especially at night."

Brennan made a face but acceded to his demands quietly, before he changed his mind and decided that maybe he really should be driving her home after all.

Booth picked up her coat and helped her into it, and she cursed herself for being so intolerably sensible. The regrets only grew from that point on. Almost as soon as they reached the sidewalk and before they were able to spend any additional time together, a cab going in the opposite direction flashed its lights at her and did a squealing u-turn in the middle of the street, swerving over to the curb aggressively in order to pick up his waiting passenger before someone else snagged her.

She noticed that even as she was opening the cab's door, Booth was still holding on to her other hand. The second she broke away from his grasp and the cold night air hit her open palm, she knew she was done for.

Almost two years ago, to the day, she had pulled away from Booth one overcast, chilly evening very similar to this one and climbed into a taxi, just as she was doing now. Both times leaving him behind, looking as if the weight of the world had just descended on his shoulders. She had hurt Booth a great deal two years ago, and stepping into that cab had been the moment when it all began, an apparently small, harmless snowball picking up speed at the top of a mountain and winding up at the bottom as a devastating avalanche.

She made up her mind. Even if it meant sleepwalking her way around the lab all day tomorrow and enduring whatever gossip and innuendos came with that unusual behavior, she wasn't going to do that to him again tonight.

She took a few dollars from her wallet, handed them to the driver with a hurried "I'm sorry," and watched as the car sped away in search of a hopefully more productive fare. She trusted that the opportunity to be sensible would still be available to her in the morning, whereas this chance to start off on the right foot for once, to rewrite an important part of their history so that their tale might unfold more happily going forward than it had in the past, might never come around again.


	33. Connections

_Hi everyone-if the premise of the flashback seems familiar, it's because I wrote it in keeping with 'The Inner Life'-I'm aiming to maintain things as consistent as I can in my stories for now, although that might change in the future. As to Booth, a couple more sentences, and it's back to business. Thanks for reading! PS, please be indulgent with any mistakes-I kind of rushed this one out the door._

"I'll stay" she said, turning to Booth with a narrowed and blue hawk-eyed stare, akin to one a high-school principal might give a bargaining adolescent in the middle of a hallway. "But _only_ on the condition that we actually go to sleep-not just to bed, especially given that I now have to wake up even earlier in the morning to go home and get ready for work. Are my terms both clear and acceptable to you?"

Now that he'd gotten what he wanted so badly, Booth was starting to look a little guilt-ridden about it.

"Are you sure? Maybe it's better if you…"

She'd made up her mind, and there was no turning back.

"Sleep."

"Sleep, I swear. You won't even know I'm there. I'll set the alarm clock extra early and drop you off at your place."

He was as good as his promise. And frankly, it was strange just laying down next to him, without the premise of sex as the overriding reason. Base animal instincts were easy to explain and categorize, but this…What lay behind this sudden change of plans was far more difficult to put into words.

Still, she had to admit that as strange as this new, chaste scenario was, it also felt natural, normal. Reassuring.

She was settling into her pillow when Booth leaned over and kissed her forehead sweetly.

"I love you Bones" he told her quietly, in heart-felt tones that went dancing through the dark to find a curious pair of ears awaiting on the other end. "I meant it the other day, and I mean it now. I'm sorry if that makes you uncomfortable, but I had to tell you, in case you thought I was just saying stuff before without really thinking about it. But what happened this weekend is a big deal, a huge deal, and I realize it's going to take some time for us to sort things out. I want you to understand that I get it, and that there's no hurry to put it all together-I'm not planning on going anywhere."

He began pulling away.

"Goodnight Bones."

She didn't say anything, because nothing could express how she was feeling inside. Instead, her fingers smoothed over the stubble on his cheek, finding their way to the back of his head. She dragged him down to her and kissed him full on the lips, precisely because it felt natural and normal and reassuring.

"Goodnight Booth."

In the middle of the night, she woke up to the realization that she was sleeping in Booth's bed-still very much of a novel twist to their relationship. She knew he was close by, but she still wanted to touch him, to reassure herself that he was actually there with her. A totally irrational impulse, because really, where else would he be at such an hour, but she still flung out her arm, searching haphazardly for his body.

Booth had fallen asleep on the opposite side of the bed, right next to the edge, and she had to scoot halfway across it to get to him. He was there, naturally, warm and solid, sleeping with his broad back facing her. Making just a hint of noise as he breathed steady and deep. Considering how much space had been between them, it was practically a miracle that he hadn't tumbled to the floor headfirst.

She was very, very lucky she allowed, as she took stock of this new connection between them; lucky to be on the receiving end of all that unconditional, uncomplicated love her partner was offering. And lucky to get this second chance with him. Fortune, good or bad, had never been something she'd given much credence to-but her point of view had changed substantially since Vincent Nigel-Murray's death.

"Hmmm," Booth murmured drowsily as Brennan entwined herself around him. He turned on his back.

"What…um...are you okay? Did the alarm ring already?" he asked in a stupor, lifting his head off the pillow to look for the clock.

"I'm sorry, Booth" she whispered. "I didn't mean to interrupt your sleep-no, it's not morning yet. I just wanted...actually, I'm not sure what I wanted. Am I bothering you?"

"Nah, never. Come here" he mumbled, putting his arm around her shoulder and bringing her up to his chest.

Because he was positive that she was going to fall back asleep almost immediately, he closed his eyes and relaxed, practically already asleep himself. But her hand began doing this amazing back and forth thingy along his inner thighs, a slow burn up one and down the other, which made it very difficult for him to do anything but hold his breath in alarm. The gentle pressure of her fingers felt...wow-and the more he thought about it, maybe not so wow.

"Bones" he asked, with considerably more awareness of the developing situation. "What are you doing? I thought we were sleeping. And I gotta tell you, this isn't exactly conducive to sleep, at least not for me. If you don't stop real soon, and I mean like _now_, I'm seeing a very cold shower in my future."

"Is it alright if I changed my mind?"

"About what, going home?"

"About sex."

"Huh?"

"I changed my mind about us not having sex tonight. But maybe it's too late, and you don't want to."

"It's never too late to change your mind about that Bones," he said, and she could hear the repressed laughter in his voice.

With that he dragged her on top of him, repeating some of her recent moves by skimming his hands back and forth lazily over her panty-clad rear-end and then up her back, to rub the silky, bare skin under her t-shirt.

"Always. But since I'm not one-hundred percent awake yet, maybe you can start us off…"

And just like a minute ago, that night she had failed to tell him that she loved him.

"Dr. Brennan, Dr. Brennan," a slew of disjointed voices was calling her name, and she was suddenly back in the van, still holding tightly to the now-silent phone.

"What did he say?" Flynn asked urgently, as if he'd been trying to get through to her for a while. "Dr. Brennan, I need you to pull yourself together" he went on more sharply. "We really need your help on this."

She tried regaining her emotional balance, but she couldn't seem to; she still felt disconnected from everything around her. Her head was under water, and the people next to her were nothing but distorted images hovering above the surface.

"He...Booths injured," she said shaking her head and stammering, and now very close to crying. "I believe that a bullet might have pierced one of his lungs. His breathing was very labored; he was coughing, he could barely speak..."

How could anyone expect her to pull herself together, with the kind of imagery that kept coming up every time she thought of Booth's lacerated message?

"Sweetie, what did he say?" Angela asked more gently, grabbing Brennan's upper arms and squeezing them just a little to get her attention. "I know it's hard, but you've got to tell us what he said; the FBI _needs_ to know. The information could turn out to be crucial in getting Booth and the others out to safety."

Brennan nodded bravely and sniffed back her tears.

"Yes, of course; you're right, Angela-I'm sorry...I'm sorry. Grant spoke first. He said he would kill Booth if Booth said anything that didn't meet with his approval."

Cam appeared intrigued by that piece of news.

"Which must mean that Booth has some information the killer doesn't want him to disseminate and that he was afraid Booth would convey to you," she suggested.

"What else, sweetie?" Angela prompted.

Still shaking inside, Brennan felt her abdomen tighten uncomfortably several times in a row. She did her best to ignore the unwelcome arrival of these new contractions, which unfortunately might be signaling the start of an early labor.

"He didn't have the opportunity to say very much. He mentioned a few things of a personal nature to me, nothing that could be of any assistance to the authorities; and then he said something about his-our-kids. It was rather…odd; it didn't make much sense, but perhaps I didn't hear correctly."

Hodgins puffed out his cheeks as he made up his mind to make the jump-they had to settle on something, right or wrong, or soon it wouldn't matter.

"I say it's a hospital-nothing else adds up. You've got weird antibiotics, crazy bacteria, blood."

"Booth told Gustavson that the suspect was dressed in scrubs this morning" Brennan remembered. "Perhaps that was not a disguise, but an actual uniform" .

"He was taunting us" Hodgins said, narrowing his eyes. "That son-of-a-bitch was taunting us the whole time, hanging out in the open with his real identity on display for the frickin' world to see. I'm telling you, I'm feeling the hospital angle-let's just go with that and forget about everything else. I can't imagine that Grant would've been stupid enough to let Booth say anything that was remotely significant, so why go there? I say hospital."

Angela's frayed nerves were beginning to show once again. "But which one?" she asked, looking equal parts lost and frustrated. "There's dozens in the area, more if we cross over into Maryland and Virginia. We need more; maybe the FBI can send bomb squads to check out the closest ones" she said in a hopeful voice, turning to Flynn.

"Not a chance," the federal agent answered unequivocally. "We don't have the manpower for that. Besides, it would create widespread panic all over town-people would think it was a terrorist attack. You have to narrow it down for me; Hacker will never go for a plan that's this broad."

A sharp crease appeared on his forehead. "Dr. Brennan, you mentioned that Booth brought up some unusual things during certain parts of your conversation; can you give me some idea of what they were? Try to be as precise as you can, he could have been speaking in some kind of code."

Brennan thought about her one-sided exchange with Booth. She made an effort to pin down the exact words he had used, because her instincts were beginning to tell her that perhaps they were important.

"He asked me to tell the boys, and our daughter when she arrives, that he loves them, and that he's sorry he won't be there for them."

The people who knew Booth personally looked both horrified and puzzled by that remark.

"He also said to give Parker and little Vincent the items he was saving for them at their uncle Mike's house-his Army Ranger things and his religious medals. To do it soon, because there was no time."

"Oh my God," Cam exclaimed under her breath. "He must have been delirious. _Uncle_ _Mike_?"

Angela looked at Hodgins.

"If he's lost a lot of blood…" she stopped herself because she didn't want Brennan to get on that runaway train, but in fact, Brennan wasn't paying any attention to her; the anthropologist's features had taken on an expression of deep concentration. It led her friends to wonder whether perhaps she was on to something.

"Dr. Brennan, what is it?" Cam asked.

"I believe Booth wasn't hallucinating when he spoke to me" she said, becoming more sure of herself as she considered Booth's words more carefully. "Despite his obviously weakened state; I'm almost certain his choice of words was deliberate, not accidental. I don't know how I know that; I just do."

"Your gut talking to you?" Hodgins asked with a half-smile.

"Perhaps."

"If that's the case, then let's parse out what he said, word for word" Cam adviced. "Focus on anything that's out of the ordinary. He mentioned his boys, but Booth only has one son, Parker. Yet he brought up a 'little Vincent'. So there's got to be a clue in there somewhere, don't you think? Was he referring to our Mr. Nigel Murray?"

"What if he was talking about our son?" Hodgins countered. "Booth's always been very fond of our kid-Michael loves it when he comes over. They horse around, and Michael always laughs his head off."

"But Hodgins, we _never_ call him Vincent-only Michael or Michael Vincent" Angela said. "And besides, there's that other reference to an uncle Mike. As far as I know, Booth only has one brother, Jared, and your brother's name is Russ" she said, looking at Brennan.

"Then maybe _that's_ the clue," Brennan interjected. "He couldn't use Michael's real name because the killer would understand that Booth was trying to send us a message. The explosives must be hidden inside a place with the word 'Michael" in the name, or some variation thereof. Angela, are there any locations on your list which might fit that description?"

"I'm looking as we speak. There's a Michael Tremontino sports arena that's hosting a monster truck rally tonight. A Murray-Anderson Scientific Research Center, but I doubt it would very busy after business hours. A Frederick Michaels Regional Library in Maryland that's open until nine..."

"That seems too far. And those other possible targets you've mentioned also don't look particularly impressive or obvious enough, in any event. No hospital, or shopping mall or convention center?" Brennan asked.

"A Michelle Gregory free medical clinic about two miles away-not open after 5. Lots of restaurants, but nothing that really catches the eye."

That line of enquiry was beginning to look like a dead end, even though no one was willing to own up to it, especially not in front of Brennan.

Flynn paced around like a caged tiger. "Nothing then. So maybe Booth really wasn't fully conscious when he was talking to you," he finally said. "He could've just been disoriented, confused. We have to consider that possibility." The rest of the staff glanced over at Brennan uncomfortably, now that Flynn had given a familiar face to their emerging fears.

"No!" Brennan replied angrily. "He wanted to send us a message. I _know_ Booth, I would know if he was speaking in an incoherent or an irrational manner."

"Wait," Angela interrupted; "he mentioned giving the kids his religious medals-it must mean something for him to specifically bring that up when he was so pressed for time. I know about the one he gave you-does he have any others?"

"He has a gold cross that he keeps by his bedside table with his bible-it was a first communion present from his aunt. I don't believe he owns any other jewelry with religious imagery on it."

"So why do you think he used the plural form of that word-unless he was trying to say metals?"

Brennan reached into the pocket of the jacket she was wearing, _Booth's_ jacket, where she had placed the St. Christopher medal Rodriguez had given her for safekeeping. She pulled it out and stared at it for a few seconds.

"St Christopher...saint...St. Michael? Perhaps he was referring to a church or a school" she offered a little more brightly.

Angela scanned her screen, her fingers moving almost at the speed of light.

"There's a St. Michael Episcopal Church a few blocks away, a St. Michael's Catholic Church 3.6 miles away, more as you go further out. But those places would probably be pretty empty right now unless there's some sort of special service going on. I mean, almost no one goes to mass after work anymore. And according to you, Booth emphasized the word soon. Besides, a church doesn't quite make sense in the context of the blood and the disinfectants."

"I've got it, of course!" Hodgins said, waiving his hands maniacally through the air. He hit his forehead with an open palm as a look of relief lit up his entire face. "I _know_ where the explosives are hidden! Ange" he said, turning to his wife with all-out excitement, "remember two weeks ago when you were paying me back for pretending to have the flu when Michael was teething, and you slept right on through all that hollering that was going on at our house in the middle of the night?"

Angela looked around, somewhat chagrined by Hodgins' perfectly truthful accusation.

"Yes?" she asked laconically.

"The ear infection, remember?"

"Dr. Hodgins, focus please" Cam extorted. "What does an ear infection have to do with our killer?"

"The hospital."

"Mercy Advocate Hospital? I don't get it" Angela replied, confused. "What does Mercy Hospital have to do with a St. Michael, or even just a Michael? I don't see the connection."

"You guys wouldn't, because none of you have been here long enough for the reference to mean anything. About four years ago, the Resurrection Medical Group bought a small, bankrupt hospital in the area and changed its name to Mercy Advocate Hospital. But up until then, it was called St. Michael's-my parents avoided going there like the plague when I was growing up, it had such a nasty reputation. It was a dumpy little place that treated mainly indigents and drug-addicts, until the Res people jazzed it up and gave it a proper emergency room with a billing system to match. When I took Michael Vincent there two weeks ago, I noticed that some of the sheets were still stamped 'St. Michael Hospital'; I even pointed it out to our little guy and made a big fuss about it-told him that was his name. Well, one of his names" he said, cocking an eyebrow at Angela. "The attending pediatrician on call that night told me that right before they were taken over, some yahoo went ahead and ordered tons of supplies with the old name of the hospital on them, and that in order to save some bucks where they could, the new owners kept on using some of them, like the linens and some of the personnel supplies. I'm sure that's where Booth was telling us to look. A lot of the old timers around here still refer to the place by its former name; probably Booth too, since he's handled so many cases in the area over the years and probably read so many cold files referencing St. Michael's. Plus, the dude's _religious_, and he hates when things change too fast."

"Of course" Cam said, her eyes growing wide as she herself made the connection. "I can't believe I didn't think of that myself. I read quite a few old reports on bodies that came from their morgue when I first came over to the Jeffersonian, in order to get a feel for the types of cases the lab dealt with. Great catch, Dr. Hodgins" she said proudly.

Brennan didn't give herself the luxury of thinking about what this discovery might mean for Booth; first they had to figure out whether Hodgins' educated guess was accurate.

"You have to let Andrew know" she said, directing this new request to Flynn. "They have to send a bomb squad to Mercy Hospital immediately."

"Are you _absolutely_ sure about this, guys? I'm telling you-Hacker won't want to create a fuss unless there's a decent chance that this hunch is viable. The last thing he wants to do is cause a commotion at a hospital-it's going to look really bad if it turns out to be nothing."

"It all makes perfectly good sense" Brennan insisted. "The oblique reference to Michael Vincent and the mention of a fictitious uncle Mike, the non-existent medals, the fact that Grant was dressed in scrubs. The victims from the warehouse explosion would have been transferred to Mercy Hospital as well as to Washington General because those are the only medical institutions in the area that have the proper facilities to handle those type of traumatic injuries. Grant was relying on that response to make his grandiose statement to the world. If he works there, as I suspect he does, he would have had opportunity, time, intimate knowledge of the hospital and easy access to closets, mechanical rooms, unused cabinets-I'm completely convinced that the explosives are located somewhere in or near the emergency room of Mercy Hospital. Detonating them there as the warehouse casualties were coming in would have resulted in major news coverage of the event. Depending on the type of job he held at the hospital and on his shift, Grant could have been missing for large periods of time without anyone questioning his absence. He could have left in the middle of the day to shoot his victims-with attention focused primarily on the ensuing sniper incidents, no one would have given him a second thought."

"Okay, I'm sold" Flynn replied as he pulled out his phone. "Let's hope that it's the right place after all, and that we're not too late."

Brennan suddenly lunged forward and took a hold of his arm, stopping him from making the call to Hacker. She had already thought about the possible consequences for her partner if word of the FBI's search got out to the press.

"If Grant is following the news, he'll know that Booth somehow conveyed the information to me as soon as the reports of a bomb squad going to Mercy Hospital are made public; he'll kill Booth immediately in retaliation."

Flynn could feel how conflicted Brennan had suddenly become about him making that all-important call to his boss, and he didn't want to leave her looking so upset.

"Dr. Brennan, I will _personally_ make sure that the operation at Mercy gets underway as inconspicuously as possible, in case Grant's keeping track of what we're doing. We'll think of something; claim there's a power outage in some part of the building, evacuate the area quietly and reroute any new patients coming in to a different hospital. I think we can do that without drawing too much attention to ourselves. If we find anything in the emergency room, then we'll have to take more drastic measures. But if that happens, I think we can ask the news outlets to keep a lid on the information, at least for a short while. Especially if we can bend Kaylie Warner's grandfather's ear on this. And trust me, when Senator Warner asks for something, he gets it."


	34. Night of Reckoning

_Don't know how Bonesed-out everyone will be after last night's heartbreaking finale, but here it goes. FF babe, it's all we got for 5 months..._

* * *

Booth lay shivering against the rough, uneven brick walls of the old refrigeration room, sweating heavily even with the damp chill steadily seeping through his blood-soaked shirt. The blood was continuing to flow but at a slightly slower rate now, possibly because there wasn't all that much of it left anymore or maybe because despite the terrible shape he was in, his desire to stay alive and to get back to Bones was giving him the strength to put even more pressure on the wound, regardless of how much that simple act hurt.

As to what condition his midsection was really in, he had no clue. Avoidance had seemed like the better option until recently because he didn't want to be completely discouraged by what he might see, but he finally gave in to morbid curiosity and peered down. No sugar-coating it; things didn't look good. The blood was already drying and stiffening into a deeper hue in places, turning his once snowy white shirt into a grisly kaleidoscope of varying shades of reds-some vivid, some so dark they looked like rust.

But there were even worse prospects to hang yourself from.

He couldn't stop punishing himself with the thought that his message to Bones hadn't been enough. Not clear enough, not obvious enough, not anything enough. His head was spinning when Grant surprised him by handing him his phone back, like an early birthday present-he never would have guessed that his suggestion could actually take, and that the killer would honor his far-fetched request. And he could be rightfully forgiven if he chose to take the easy way out regarding what happened next; blaming the lackluster speech that followed on his sorry-assed condition or on having the barrel of Grant's gun pressed so hard against the side of his head while he was talking that there was probably a permanent indentation left on his skull from it.

But none of those things could alter the fact that he was sure he'd messed up-again.

Or that he was pissed and frustrated beyond belief about it. His moment of redemption had come and gone, with very little to show for it. There were no easy ways out, ever, not for Seeley Booth.

What was anyone supposed to make of his garbled message to Bones and the squints?

The members of the Jeffersonian were all geniuses, but no one could get something out of nothing. _It's not called St. Michael's anymore, you idiot._ Who in that bunch would be able to understand that dated reference? It's what he was used to calling the place, even with the official renaming that happened a few years back. It's what everyone at the Hoover still called it-federal agents as a rule didn't appreciate change, and maybe that's why they were comfortable in their matching dark suits and nondescript ties, working for a bureaucracy where innovations took years to percolate down from the top. But what about the scientists from the lab-could they make the tenuous connection?

Unfortunately, it had been the only thing that had popped into his head on such short notice, particularly since the gas gauge on his brain had gone well into the red zone a while back. With a little more time he might have been able to improve on the delivery, but Grant had become increasingly impatient as the message grew longer, finally ripping the phone from his hand after a sad-sack struggle.

Would the extra information have made even one iota of a difference though? There was absolutely no way of knowing; more of those vague, disjointed references might have only succeeded in muddying the waters further for those guys, making him seem even more delusional than he actually was.

At least his personal message to Bones was all that he wanted it to be, and that was one of the few things he could be satisfied with on this interminably long afternoon that no longer seemed to have either a beginning or an end, like one of those first seven days in the Book of Genesis.

His biggest regret? That circumstances had forced him to ask Bones to remain silent while he went on, because he could imagine what she was going to say to him in return and it would have been nice to hear it. His beautiful, capable, otherwise amazing girl had never been great with words-not the nicey-nice ones that everybody threw around so casually, the ones that didn't have anything to do with science and academics, but lately, she'd been getting more comfortable using certain terms of endearment around him and it never failed to make him smile inside. She was phrasing things more gently, a little more diplomatically these days-but one thing hadn't, and would never, change: she never said anything she didn't mean. So when she finally brought up the elusive ILY shortly after they found out about the baby, she had reached right into his heart and set off a bunch of fireworks in there with her quiet declaration. The unexpected disclosure had been all he had dreamed it would be, and more; it had left him completely stunned, and even more in love with her than he'd been before, which he would've sworn up until that moment was simply not possible.

God, he loved her so very, very much, that sometimes it scared him to within an inch of his life.

Their bond had only become stronger and deeper during the subsequent months that came after that high, even with all the relationship growing pains that were simply unavoidable for any new couple just moving in together and having a baby.

Even with the ring that had never been taken out of its box.

Everything, except for the fact they loved each other, was irrelevant.

Besides, her actions towards him had always spoken way louder than any words or the wearing of an engagement ring could. That she worried about him all the time, turning his concerns and his hurts into her own, suffering when he suffered, laughing when he laughed; that she believed without a speck of ambivalence that he was a decent, moral human being in spite of all the ugly things he'd done in his life; that she was kind and patient with him, always giving him the space he needed to come around to the right way of thinking without ever giving up on him.

_That, _all put together, was the true definition of love, as far as he was concerned. The words had just been the icing on the cake. Good, great icing that went down smooth and tasted like heaven-but icing nevertheless, just like the ring would be if it ever went on.

So he didn't need those specific words today, not really, because he already knew how she felt. But it sure would've been nice to hear her say them one last time.

No matter; what was, was-there was no looking back from this point on. The proverbial die was cast. His failing body was telling him that he no longer had a sporting chance on this blood-spattered ring, and Grant seemed to agree with that brutally honest assessment. The killer was going about his business while ignoring him completely, dismissing his presence as if the agent already belonged to the realm of the dead.

Booth had caught the look of displeasure that had crossed Grant's face when he pried the phone away from his stubborn fingers, but thankfully there had been no other repercussions stemming from his conversation with Bones other than that puzzled, disagreeable look. It was as if Grant were trying to determine whether the wool had just been pulled over his eyes, or whether the call and its contents had been completely innocent. After a split-second of narrow-eyed reflection, the madman went back to his spot under the windows, back to his radio and to whatever fantasies were playing out inside that fucked-up head of his.

Apparently, the question was settled: innocent it was.

Booth glanced over at the other inhabitants of the room, the ones who might still be breathing. Kaylie was keeping her head so low that he couldn't make out her expression, and Sweets...

_Come on, face up to it_.

Sweets was dead.

_Epic fail, dude_, he could picture Sweets berating him from the beyond.

_Killed your friends with your over-confidence, Agent Booth. Your plan was a bust, and Gustavson and I are dead because we trusted that you had what it took to pull it off, and you didn't._

What time was it? He was growing more and more drowsy and he'd lost track of time a while back. With almost no heartbeat left to speak of, Booth looked down at his wrist, wondering how long they had to go until the impending explosion at the hospital. After all he had already seen, he couldn't imagine having to sit through the news reports on _that _catastrophic event; it just wasn't fair.

_As if fairness ever had a sporting chance within a three-mile radius of here,_ he thought with resignation.

After he looked at his watch, Booth ended up laughing without meaning to at this extra little dig life had in store for him-the face of the thing was too smeared with blood for him to be able to read the numbers. What else was he expecting? So even though he had purposefully tuned out the blather coming from the radio long ago, his attention was forced to return to the news coverage of the hostage situation at the warehouse-_his_ hostage situation, the one he had helped create because he hadn't been quick enough on the draw.

The last rays of the sun were disappearing fast, so he figured it had to be getting close. He let his eyes wander over to the indigo shadows that were taking their place, dark fingers stretching out lazily across the floor like a living puddle of some malignant goop, slowly drenching more and more of the room in inky gloom. And as the sun faded, Booth thought mournfully, so faded the prospects of all those people seeking some kind of relief from their miseries at the emergency room of St. Michael's. Parents coming home to little kids too sick to wait for the pediatrician tomorrow, workers just off their shift with no ability to get to a doctor during the day, broken bones, heart attacks, women in labor, toes jammed in doors, scaldings from boiling water on the stove, fevers, scratchy throats; on and on. He could envision with cursable perfection the crowds of unfortunates at the triage station, could imagine their weary, resigned expressions as they waited patiently for their names to finally be called by the nurse in charge. And just like before, when it had been Bones and his guys facing death at the hands of Grant, could see exactly the type of carnage a bomb would wreak on all those frail and unprotected bodies. Had seen it all before; in Afghanistan and Iraq, on covert operations, during his stint with the FBI. Bombs, beatings, executions, you name it; it wasn't an easy career to love.

Of more recent vintage? Gina Morracone's slashed, barren midriff, the paramedic growing cold in the parking lot, a blank-faced Gustavson hanging from the ceiling...gore, death, devastation every time he closed his eyes, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

_The time is 6:30..._

The news station had taken a small break from the story to give a brief rundown on weather and traffic conditions because it was rush hour, but Booth knew they'd be right back. He felt sorry for Kaylie; some reporter had just identified her as one of the hostages right before the break, almost certainly against the wishes of the FBI and her parents, and as soon as she heard her name, she began to cry again.

"Shut up, you stupid bitch" Grant growled. "Shut up-I can't stand your constant whining-should have strapped your mouth shut with duct tape from the beginning. Maybe you need a little help simmering down" Grant said menacingly, starting to rise from the floor with full-throttled hatred oozing out of every pore, the gun held jerkily in his hand. Booth had never seen him looking quite this nervous and deranged before, and he worried about what could have led to the sudden change in mood. Was it just how close it was to the time of the explosion, or was there something else, something more sinister than just the inherent stress of waiting for the bomb to go off?

_Just stand a little straighter, pal,_ Booth thought. _Just make yourself a little taller, and you're toast. They can see you, even in the dark; they've been watching you for hours. All they need is one clear shot and..._

But Grant was simply too smart, too seasoned to make a foolish mistake like that. And just like before, he crouched back down almost immediately and began an awkward half-waddle towards Booth and the girl.

"Leave her alone," Booth said tersely as Grant came closer. "Hey Kaylie," he whispered, turning to his charge and desperately trying to get her attention-she had no idea how close Grant was to going totally berserk; Booth could feel the impending total breakdown in their captor's psyche, and it made him truly afraid for Kaylie's safety. He shook his head at her emphatically, and the girl held her breath as he finally caught her eye.

"Please...remember what I said" he told her as authoritatively as he could.

She got the message; she hid her face in the crook of an arm propped up against her pulled-up knee, and her muffled cries hardly came through anymore. "That's better" he told her gently; "hang in there with me, kid."

The open sobbing might have stopped, but Grant kept getting closer and Booth's heart began to race; if Grant put a gun to Kaylie's head and pulled the trigger, he couldn't do anything to save her life this time.

He watched with agitation as Grant continued his approach, even though Kaylie was barely making a sound. A pervasive fear took a hold deep inside his heart; he was starting to suspect that their enemy had finally figured that something was up with that phone call after all, and that now pushed to the limit, he'd decided to take out his fury on the terrified girl sitting next to him in retaliation. It was with no small amount of relief that he found the sniper looking at him instead.

His foe was decidedly unhappy. And then Grant grinned with a heightened sense of awareness and purpose that gave Booth the willies.

"I bet there's no uncle Mike, is there?" he asked in an eerily calm, emotionless tone. "And the crap about your kids, the things you were leaving them-that was all made up too, wasn't it? You were sending her a message about the hospital, weren't you? Weren't you?" Grant's voice was rising with each new accusation.

What was the point of arguing? Booth looked away, too exhausted to deny or to accept the charges, or to put up any kind of fight for that matter.

"You goddamned, son-of-a-bitch.."

Raising his arm suddenly, Grant brought the butt of the gun down in a drastic move, pistol-whipping Booth against his left cheekbone and leaving him seeing little bursts of light inside his brain as he fell over. He came close to completely blacking-out from the hit; it was only through the force of sheer orneriness that he managed to stay conscious.

"Here I thought because we were both army guys, that there was some kind of loyalty code between us. I let you make that call 'cause you gave me your word as a soldier you wouldn't try anything shitty, and you used it to screw me over. I could kill you right now, Booth, and I wouldn't even have to fire a shot to do it" Grant bragged, as he pressed the front of his shoe against Booth's throat. If the killer applied even the smallest amount of pressure, Booth knew he was done for. He began to choke; his vision started failing as his air supply got cut off little by little by the weight of Grant's foot.

"But you know what" Grant went on, with less zeal in his voice but equal amounts of viciousness, "I want you to live 'til _just a little_ after 7; I want you to hear first-hand how well my plan went, regardless of how you squealed to your girlfriend. You think you're so clever, but they're never gonna figure it out, even with the lame clues you gave her; not in time to stop it from happening."

The pressure from the foot eased, and Booth coughed and sputtered, as he attempted to catch his breath.

"That bomb's going off, and everyone in that emergency room, everyone there who never saw me as anything but a grunt and a loser, is going up in the air with it."

As Grant retraced his steps back to the windows, Booth did what he could to prop himself up against the wall again, but he was only partly successful this time. He touched his swelling cheek; one more bruise the funeral home would have to patch over before they could lay him out for a viewing.

By all rights, his head should be throbbing like crazy from this latest assault, but the pain wasn't really registering, although he could feel a trickle of blood running down his face. He knew why that was, because he had seen the signs all too often in others; the final stages of shock had begun to set in along with the uncontrollable shaking that came with it, and that's why he couldn't feel much of anything anymore. Soon he'd be convulsing, foaming at the mouth, overcome by fatal seizures that once manifest, no EMT in the world could stop.

The end was just around the corner.

Half dead, half alive; it was no way for a man to exist. If he was going to be subjected to the tragedy about to happen at St. Michael's, he'd rather die sooner rather than later. He was starting to rue the fact that Grant hadn't gone ahead and finished him off just now.

Time continued it's inevitable move forward and when seven came along, Booth closed his eyes tight with dread. But then 7:05 came and went, and then 7:10, with nothing of significance being reported on the radio.

_It's over, thank God._

Bones and the others had solved the puzzle, had to, and he couldn't be prouder of their tenacity and their smarts. There couldn't be any other explanation for not having heard about the explosion by now; anything else would be a cruel coincidence, and the universe couldn't hate him to that degree. Besides, they weren't that far away from the intended target-they would've felt the blast from here for sure, heard the police and fire truck sirens flying by if the bomb had gone off.

_They did it out _Booth thought, overcome with relief; against every odd, his team and his girl, they'd figured it out. For the first time in hours, he allowed his muscles to go slack, even though the shaking still wouldn't stop. It was utterly dark inside the room now, save for the diluted glare coming through the filthy windows from the ring of lights that the FBI had set up around the building.

He sensed Grant's presence as the killer approached him silently, even though the man was now invisible to him. He could no longer make out the pale blue eyes or the wild hatred etched in them, but he could feel the way they were burning holes in his skin. The hunter had been thwarted, and he was coming for his pound of flesh.

Booth prepared himself as best he could for what he knew was coming next; willing his boundless love to reach Bones and his kids even from such a great distance. There would be no more reprieves today-the game was done. He began praying softly after making the sign of the cross, asking God for the courage to let go; of his friends, of his family, of the woman he adored-of this great surprise of a life he'd recently been gifted with.

He heard the gun cock. And with that, his jaw involuntarily clenched tight, just like his fists had already done when the barrel of the gun first grazed his temple. _One, two,_...

* * *

The HRT unit that Hacker had sent into the warehouse was almost finished with its task, when a single gun shot rang out on the other side of the thick metal door that separated the agents from the sniper and his hostages. As soon as Flynn heard that deeply troubling sound, he immediately gave the order to proceed, and the demolition experts putting the finishing touches on the plastic explosives that had been wedged all around the grooves of the heavy, dented door scurried back to safety. The minute they were deemed to be far away enough, a deafening 'boom' bounded down the empty hallways of the warehouse's fourth floor, and a large cloud of smoke and debris rose up almost immediately.

The dust had little time to settle before six sturdy agents hoisting a large battering ram brought the white-hot door down in one decisive, perfectly-placed strike. With the door no longer blocking their way, another set of agents in full protective gear immediately ran inside the now ominously silent room, fingers tightly wound around the triggers of their assault rifles, alert eyes already scouring the premises for the enemy with the assistance of powerful flashlights being held up behind them.

The men had no idea what to expect as they crossed the threshold into that cold-storage room in the old Pinkham warehouse, but ultimately none of their helmeted faces was prepared for the grim sight that was waiting for them there: a lurid landscape of ruin and loss, where their comrades, colleagues and friends all, appeared to be dead.

No one noticed the bloody, wild-eyed man sitting up against one of the columns with a gun dangling listlessly from his hand.


	35. Broken Pavement

As soon as the tall, dark silhouette appeared in the doorway of the FBI's mobile lab Brennan turned around in her chair, forgetting all about the desolate landscape that stretched on and on for blocks outside the van's tinted windows. She'd been waiting for what seemed like hours for some news, any news, that could dispel the sense of helplessness that had come over the tightly-knit Jeffersonian crew once Flynn walked away to coordinate the search for explosives at the former St. Michael's Hospital.

It hadn't been hours, of course; she was acutely aware that only 38 minutes and 26 seconds had elapsed since Flynn's departure. Certainly not an unreasonable period of time to be in the dark, considering the sensitive nature of the work the FBI's demolition unit was tasked with. But while time and its components were generally considered to be immutable even in this subatomic day and age, a person's perception of their passage was definitely not, and to Brennan it felt like an eternity since she'd last seen Booth's colleague.

Once the door closed behind Flynn, it was as if all the energy in the room fled with him. Brennan, Angela, Hodgins, Cam-even the nameless FBI technicians milling around-chose to hide their thoughts behind an impenetrable wall of silence. In some ways it was easier coping that way, without continuing to dissect the situation into any more pieces.

But the unnatural, awkward silence only served to highlight how isolated each of the individuals in the station really felt.

It was an inevitable after all the frantic brainstorming and theorizing that had just taken place; now that their work had resulted in a viable lead for the authorities, there was little else for the scientists to do but wait it out.

How difficult was it sitting around with idle hands when the mind was still going full-throttle?

Brennan in particular didn't feel like engaging in conversation with anyone. She was cognizant that on some level she was already mourning the loss of all that was and of all that might have been with her partner, even with this possibly final chapter to their story still unwritten. Booth-the one constant in her world for so many years; she almost couldn't remember what life without him was like, and she didn't want to be reminded-not now, not ever. So she purposefully turned her back on her friends after Flynn left, staring with single-minded focus out the window of the bus to avoid making eye-contact with her coworkers, absently stroking her abdomen to soothe the baby girl growing inside her. The contractions were still coming at regular intervals and she knew that soon she would have to make her way to the hospital no matter what.

Soon, without question-but not yet.

Surely by now, the FBI's demolition experts had to have either disproved or confirmed her and Hodgins' theory as to the placement of the explosives. Whatever watered-down hopes she still had hinged on a find. If the device was at St. Michael's, it could be disarmed and disposed of, and the Bureau's full attention could once again go to Grant and the hostages.

And in the event that this best-case scenario of hers panned out…

She really didn't want to think about what would be happening after that. The FBI's bureaucracy had their way of doing things, just like she and the Jeffersonian staff had theirs, and it was almost inevitable that their views on how best to deal with the rescue of the captives would clash, in part because there were many options available and none of them were foolproof. How could they be, given the delusional, unstable personality they were dealing with? And while for her, Booth's safety was of paramount importance, worth pursuing at almost any cost, she wasn't sure that the FBI would agree with her on that.

They probably wouldn't listen to her at all, she fretted, since they already had the information they needed from the Jeffersonian.

Knitting her fingers together tightly until both her hands started to get stiff, she sighed with a sense of burgeoning alienation. This wasn't a position she was familiar or comfortable with, having to accept the fact that regardless of how rational her arguments might be, her input would be discounted all the same.

If this were any other type of situation, the impending marginalization of Dr. Temperance Brennan by the Federal agency that routinely begged for her skills would be the equivalent of a slap to the face; a source of wounded pride. But today they were dealing with Booth's life-pride was not the issue here. How could she accept their likely indifference when she was certain she could still make the difference between getting Booth back alive as opposed to dead? Bureaucracy or not-she just couldn't go with that, and she was willing to fight tooth and nail in order to have her voice heard on her partner's behalf.

_Booth, I know it's impossible, that it defies the law of physics in every conceivable way, but if somehow my thoughts can reach you and you're still here, please, please hold on. Don't leave me. We have so much more to share-so much, you and I, and we haven't had nearly enough time. Please don't go..._

"It's all worth it," Angela had decreed with emphasis earlier that day. That was the way in which her friend experienced the world, with an open, loving heart that was unable to view things in anything but a positive light, just like Booth did. She smiled sadly; as often as she derided them for their ideas, both her partner and her friend clung to their belief that everything happened for a reason. To them, the glass was always half-full, no matter how many setbacks they suffered or how many times they had to pick themselves off the floor.

She wasn't anything like that.

"All of it."

Everything? Even if Booth wound up dead, and her heart broken beyond repair? Would she be willing to live this same life all over again, knowing how it would end? She wasn't Angela or Booth-they didn't share her same points of reference, didn't have-or desire-her ability to see the world as it really was, random and precarious and, more often than not, extremely harsh.

She wanted nothing more than to be able to shout out a resounding 'yes,' to that question, to yell out that what she and Booth had was worth it even if things went badly today, but she couldn't-not yet, because she simply wasn't sure what her answer would be if the worst actually came to pass. Perhaps she had to come face to face with the monster, to reach that terrible fork in the road-the loss of the man she had stripped her heart bare for so that he could come inside and become a part of her-for her to truly know whether Angela's statement applied to her or not.

Lurking in the back of her mind had always been the sneaking suspicion that she and Booth had come together in a moment of mutual weakness, because they were both feeling vulnerable and lost, and they needed a sense of belonging, of connection, after all that happened with Vincent and Broadsky. So was this the ultimate test of faith for her? Had their union ultimately made her stronger-regardless of how it had begun or of how it went today-or would it leave her even weaker and more brittle than before, more steeped in sorrow, feeling more alone than she'd ever felt in her life?

She leaned closer to the window and watched as a gust of wind whipped the weeds outside the station back and forth, while in the background the hazy sun made its descent past the horizon. The ragged band of plucky volunteers colonizing the warehouse's old parking lot were all abloom and they caught her eye with their unassuming beauty, in spite of the grim setting. Brennan could easily identify colony after colony of dandelion, yarrow, Queen Anne's lace and her favorite of the bunch-chicory, with its sky-blue flowers-growing between the cracks of the broken pavement.

Chicory-Booth probably would say something silly and syrupy about how their color reminded him of her eyes as he gave her that little-boy, lop-sided smile of his. He was definitely the more romantic of the two.

She sighed; even when she was trying to forget, her partner was never far away from her thoughts.

However, the question remained. Whether she could honestly say that it was all worth it, that she would willingly relive this day over again in order to have what she'd had for the last eight month...that was still up for grabs.

Within a few minutes of Flynn's departure, Cam, Angela and Hodgins finally broke their self-imposed vows of silence. They began going over their notes on the case, even when their renewed efforts seemed like overkill to Brennan. She refused to join in. Her mental engine had shut down and she felt completely empty, as if some alien entity had swooped down and absconded with every ounce of life-force she possessed, leaving the body behind, but taking the essence of her being with it.

She was deeply touched by her colleagues' gesture of solidarity, though, wasted as it might be. She listened furtively now and then, hearing them discuss other possible bombing targets, just in case their hunch about Mercy Hospital didn't pan out.

Brennan figured they were doing it primarily for her, to distract her from whatever was going on inside that warehouse. Because in reality they had to know just as well as she did that if the explosives were not where they all thought they were, it was pretty much over for the hostages and for anyone who happened to be near wherever they'd been placed. No information garnered over the next few minutes would change that. Grant's 'soon' was almost here, so close now that she could practically taste it, like the dregs of a bitter drink laced through and through with fatal poison.

Their educated guess had to pan out; _had_ to; otherwise they would be forced to start all over again with the full knowledge that they were doing it for no reason.

The silhouette at the door moved further in, until the lab's spotty lighting finally showed it to be that of Hacker's. As the man heading the entire operation at Pinkham's on behalf of the Feds, the fact that he was here in person and not just calling them on the phone to report on the events at the hospital could either mean very good news, or very bad. Brennan held her breath as she unconsciously reached in her pocket for Booth's medal.

"Temperance" he said, with a smile that gave her and her co-workers reason for cautious optimism, "I'm here to personally thank you and your entire team for the invaluable help you've given us with this whole situation. You were right about Mercy Advocate-our guys found a cache of explosives hidden inside of one of the vending machines in the waiting room of the ER."

You could feel the tension ebbing a touch within the station.

"A vending machine?" Angela remarked. "How on earth was he able to put them in there without anyone noticing?"

Hacker turned to face the artist.

"As you all initially suspected, Ted Grant worked at Mercy. He was an orderly there-several employees on call this afternoon recognized the name, as well as the age-progression photographs that you provided us showing Grant as an older man. Excellent work by the way, Ms. Montenegro."

"Thanks" Angela replied offhandedly.

"And it was easier for him to pull it off than you might think; Grant was a handyman in his spare time, and apparently a pretty good one, so the hospital had him doing extra stuff here and there for a little extra cash-that way they avoided union wages on some of the more minor maintenance work. It seems that the vending machine had been broken for a few days and no one had come by to fix it; who knows if he had a hand with that. Grant offered to work on it yesterday, after his shift ended. Witnesses remember him fidgeting with the machine but no one thought anything of it since he did odd jobs all the time around the place. He was at it for a while late last night, but then he said he'd have to call the vending company. He closed it back up and put up the 'broken' sign on it. No one bothered to check out what he'd done; I mean, why would they? But believe me, the techs said there were enough pyrotechnics jammed inside that thing to take out most of the ER, and maybe part of the floor above it. It was set on a timer, not a remote detonator, so it's a good thing we got to it when we did."

Hodgins glanced down at his watch-it was 6:35. "And what time was it set for?" he asked nervously.

"Seven."

"Oh my God!" Cam exclaimed, putting both hands over her open mouth. "That's just around the corner. A few more minutes..."

"Well, no need to worry-our crew go to it in time," Hacker stated proudly. "The thing's been deactivated, and a quick search of the other floors by the canine unit revealed no signs of any other explosives. We're checking floor by floor anyway just in case, and we're also sending other teams to the ERs of Washington General and any other hospitals in the area that the injured from the failed warehouse explosion might have been taken to. I'm thinking this was it though-he wouldn't have been able to work under such a convenient cover anywhere else, like he did at Mercy. The opportunities just weren't available in those other places."

"So what are you going to do about Grant and the hostages" Brennan asked, ignoring details that were inconsequential to her. "Whatever course of action you settle on must be acted on immediately. Once seven o'clock arrives and Grant realizes that nothing happened at the hospital, he'll probably kill the captives out of anger, but even if he doesn't, he'll definitely go after Booth. By then, Grant will have undoubtedly figured out what our conversation meant. He has nothing to lose by killing one more person."

"Yes, we've already talked about that unfortunate possibility. Our SWAT team is prepared to fire tear gas into the fourth floor once we get the all-clear from Mercy, which should be coming soon. Once the canisters go off, several members from that unit will rappel down the walls of the building and break into the room through the windows."

"That's not an acceptable option" Brennan stated unequivocally. Hacker's eyes widened in surprise at the absolute nature of her comment.

"Temperance" he said in a vaguely condescending tone, "you've been very helpful so far, and I couldn't be more grateful, but this is purely law enforcement territory now. We're talking about the FBI's approved, standard operating procedure for dealing with a hostage crisis, particularly when the suspect is as volatile and unpredictable as Grant is. We've got to do things by the book on this one."

"No, what we're talking about is Booth's life! You don't understand" she pleaded as she grabbed his arm. "Booth is severely injured, he could barely breathe during our conversation. If you fire tear gas canisters inside that room, you'll kill him. The chemicals used in tear gas are highly noxious; they will irritate his already failing respiratory system. The vapors will cause his compromised airways to spasm and close, and he'll asphyxiate within minutes, probably before any of your men are able to reach him with an oxygen mask."

"Tempe, it's too late; any other plan would take too long to implement and any delay could potentially result in the deaths of everyone in that room, including Booth."

"Yes, but if you use tear gas, it's a certainty that you will kill him, whereas any other result is just a hypothetical outcome at the moment." Her eyes filled with tears. "You can't do this to him, Andrew," she cried out angrily. "He's your responsibility, you're his commanding officer; he counts on you; he's put his life in danger countless times to save others while he's been under your command, and you've benefitted both personally and professionally from both his courage and his loyalty. There has to be another way."

Flynn had walked into the station mid-way through the argument, but instead of going over to his boss and updating him on the situation at Mercy as he'd planned, he chose to hang back quietly as Hacker and Brennan continued to do battle over the issue. As the discussion progressed, it seemed to him that Hacker was becoming less and less willing to budge from his initial position.

"If I may offer a suggestion, sir" Flynn finally stepped in, in an effort to break the stalemate between his boss and an increasingly agitated Dr. Brennan; "I believe there might be another plan we can go with that won't set us back too far in terms of time."

"Please" Hacker replied throwing his hands up in the air helplessly; "anything, Flynn. Help me out-I'm lost here."

Never in his life had the agent been so closely scrutinized by a group of individuals.

"We already have a tactical team in place on the fourth floor, waiting in the hallway outside the hostage room-it's been there all along. I say they place plastic explosives all around the door-very, very quietly-blow the thing off its hinges, and then beat what's left of it down and run in. With the noise and the smoke, the killer might be thrown off balance long enough for us to take him out before he hurts whoever's still left alive in there."

"And if the door doesn't come down-I've been told it's extremely thick. What then?"

"I've seen it, sir; it's old, it's rusty; I think we can bring it down. If we can't, then we immediately go with the tear gas option. I know the explosives are risky and there'll be a small amount of time when the hostages are exposed before we can actually get in there, but nothing about what we're doing is guaranteed. Grant could have a gas mask on hand for all we know, and the tear gas wouldn't do squat-it might just cause him to go on a last-ditch killing spree. Sir, I don't see how anyone could rightfully blame you no matter how this plays out."

Looking more comfortable now that Flynn's reasoning had partially absolved him of responsibility for any collateral damage that might result from going with this somewhat unorthodox strategy, Hacker nodded slowly.

"Maybe," he answered.

"Please?" Brennan begged, tilting her head at Hacker as her eyes brimmed over with tears.

"Okay Flynn-go with it" Hacker replied, giving in again to the woman he had once so highly coveted. "But if that door doesn't come down immediately," he added sternly, "it's back to the gas canisters and to the breaking in through the windows, without any more stalling. Because the minute Grant knows we're up to something, as he most certainly will when the plastic explosives go off, it's over for the girl and for our guys in that room. There's no margin for error on this."

"Yes sir-and by the way, the search at Mercy's complete-so I'll go take care of this other business right away" Flynn replied, walking away.

Hacker began to follow him out.

"Wait, Andrew" Brennan said. "I have one more favor to ask of you."

One of Hacker's eyebrows rose sharply.

"Yeeees," he asked warily.

"I want to be there."

"What! No, absolutely not! Have you lost your mind, Temperance? Well, has she," he asked in a high-pitched voice, looking around for moral support.

The other occupants of the room refused to say anything, even though there was no doubt from the horrified looks on their faces that they all agreed with his opinion.

Cowards all, he thought.

"Not during the siege-I know I can't be there for that" Brennan continued, undaunted by Hacker's vehement denial of her request. "But as soon as your men secure the premises and Grant is no longer a threat, I want to be present in that room. I want to be with Booth, I want to see him."

"Tempe" he said gently, gripping one of her hands; "there's going to be people running every which way in there, even after the suspect's taken care of. Paramedics, members of the Hostage Rescue Unit, God knows who else, holding guns, heavy equipment, whatever. You could get hurt; really hurt-it's dark inside that building-you've been there; you know how dangerous it is. You're seven months pregnant, for pete's sake; this is crazy-please work with me and be reasonable for once today."

"I know I'm not being reasonable, and I don't care; I can't be reasonable, or logical, or anything else right now. I need to be with him; if he's dying, I may not get another opportunity to tell him that..." she stopped, and Angela walked up silently and put her arm around her shoulder.

"And if he's dead already" Hacker said softly, asking the million-dollar question on one wanted to bring up.

"I still want to be there" she said, getting a slim hold on her emotions. "Somehow, he'll know; Booth believes in those things, he believes that a person's spirit lingers around in the material world after death, and I want to give him that sense of closure, whether I believe in that concept myself or not."

She looked unflinchingly into Hacker's eyes.

"You owe this to me for all the times the Jeffersonian and I have assisted you with your investigations, but you particularly owe it to Booth. I promise you that I won't be in anyone's way," she finished, her voice suddenly sounding fragile and tentative, like that of a young girl's.

Andrew Hacker finally relented-he knew Temperance Brennan too well, and she'd find a way into that building and into that cold-storage room with or without his approval, perhaps injuring herself even more as a result of his refusal to help her out.

"Alright-after we know everything's safe, I'll have someone come get you and bring you up, but just for a minute. Temperance, I've got to tell you" he said smiling, "you are one of the most beautiful, interesting, smartest women I know-wait, scratch that; _the_ most beautiful, interesting, smartest woman I know. But in hindsight, I'm kind of glad things didn't work out between us, because you're one defiant, bull-headed handful. I swear, I've never met anyone so stubborn in my life other than maybe your partner. Booth was definitely the better man for the snake-wrangling job that must be being in a romantic relationship with you. It's got to be _really_ interesting between you two at home, as fiery and uncompromising as you both are."

Brennan's tense expression still spoke of mistrust.

"Don't worry, Temperance," Hacker said reassuringly; "I swear I'm keeping my word about letting you in to see Booth. I'll send Rodriguez over right away just to prove that I mean it, and he'll take you up as soon as our guys confirm that the coast is clear. I really hope it all turns out well for everyone, but especially for you and for Seeley."

"Thank you, Andrew."

"And Temperance, take care of yourself and of that baby-I don't need Booth beating the living crap out of me if something happens to either one of you."


	36. Snowflakes

Brennan was waiting outside the mobile lab for Rodriguez when Angela snuck up beside her.

"You never mentioned what else Booth told you."

"I'm sorry?" Brennan replied, surprised to find her friend so close by.

"Earlier, when we were in there with Flynn, you mentioned that Booth said some personal things to you. I got the impression that you were kind of upset by them, and not just by the fact that he was hurt."

"I...no, his words didn't upset me. I guess some of them did" Brennan admitted as she looked at the ground, evading Angela's gaze.

"He said he loved me."

Angela smiled.

"Of course. And he does; always has. Booth's a very consistent guy, especially when it comes to you."

"And then he told me not to look."

"Not to look? Not to look at what? I don't get it."

Brennan closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath.

"Booth believes he's going to die before the authorities can break into the room to free the hostages, and he doesn't want me to see his body once that has happened."

"Oh God; I'm sorry, Brennan. I never dreamt that's what was going on between you two-I thought it was another argument. I wouldn't have asked if I had realized it would make you think about something so awful all over again."

"It's alright; you didn't know."

"But if he asked you not to look, then why are you insisting on going up there before you know whether he's okay or not?"

"I never actually gave him my word that I wouldn't look; Grant ended the call before I could."

Angela refused to let that one go. "That's splitting hairs and you know it-I'm sure you would've made that promise in a heartbeat if you'd had the chance. Am I right?"

The question was met by guilty silence.

"Don't you get it? He doesn't want to leave you with that image of him, sweetie," the artist said compassionately. "Why don't you wait? If-God forbid-something does happen to Booth, you don't need to be standing right next to him in order for his spirit to find you, if that's really what this is all about. He'll know where you are."

"That's only a small part of the reason why I want to go back into that warehouse. I'm a scientist, Angela" Brennan answered, her voice trembling with emotion. "I _need_ to know-I need to see for myself. And..."

Brennan's explanation was cut short by the hollow sound of three shots fired one after another. A muffled 'boom' followed a few seconds later; the noise hung in the air dramatically like the crack of a bat connecting with a baseball in a stadium, until it finally faded into nothing.

The sequence of events was chilling and ruthlessly explicit, leaving little room for any interpretation other than the most obvious one. A series of shots that could be heard loud and clear outside the building, and then a dull bang.

Gunfire. An explosion. In that precise, inflexible order.

Someone had fired three shots inside the warehouse before the tactical team had been able to blow open the door. Three hostages, three shots-it didn't take a genius to figure it out.

"Booth!" Brennan screamed, running towards the building even though Rodriguez hadn't shown up yet.

"Brennan, honey, don't; please!" Angela begged tearfully. "Remember what he asked."

Brennan spun around and Angela could feel the sorrow coming off her in waves as she looked into her friend's eyes.

"Don't you understand, Angela? It's Booth, and I _have_ to be with him, no matter what."

She was heading towards the same entrance of the building that she'd gone in before when Rodriguez picked up his gait, intercepting her before she could find her way in.

"We should wait, Doctor Brennan" he said, trying to calm her down. "Let the paramedics and the other officers in to do their job, make sure the suspect is down and there's no booby traps laying around."

She ignored him while her eyes scanned the building's exterior, desperately searching for signs of another opening. One that wasn't so thoroughly obstructed by law enforcement and medical personnel as the one in front of her was.

"There must be another entrance we can use, perhaps a smaller, more inconvenient one that the first responders are avoiding for logistical reasons" she stated. "This can't be the only point of entry."

The young agent's shoulders slumped. Yes, there was another way in, and he was hoping she wouldn't ask about it. When he remained silent, she stared him up and down and he felt himself wilt. He was doomed. He already knew from other dealings with her today that holding her back was impossible-this was Dr. Brennan they were talking about, and he was absolutely no match for her in any way, shape or form.

"There is" he acknowledged, cowed; "it's on the other side. But ma'am, aside from all the potential dangers of getting you in, you may not like what you might see when you get up there. Are you sure you want to go?"

She took a second to mull the agent's question over.

"No" she replied slowly, "but I have to go regardless. Please help me; I don't want to waste any more time arguing about it."

Moved by her grief, Rodriguez pulled out his flashlight and reluctantly headed towards the second, non-descript door with his charge.

"Follow me, but please be very careful; this way's even more narrow and cluttered than the other one you went up before."

The trip took longer this time. It wasn't just the that the distance was inherently more difficult to traverse; her now-regular contractions were also making it more difficult to climb the steps.

As soon as they reached the fourth floor hallway, an out-of-breath Brennan saw two female FBI agents and a paramedic escorting a teenaged girl out; they had wrapped her in a thick blanket and were holding her up, while she sobbed openly.

Brennan was shocked to see her; the young woman had to be the missing high school student.

And she was alive. It wasn't what she expected.

"Hey, watch it!" her guide yelled angrily as a pair of technicians bringing in armfuls of equipment carelessly elbowed their way past him and Brennan on their way to the cold-storage room. "Pregnant lady here!" Rodriguez berated them, incensed by their lack of care.

Shielding her as well as he could with his own body, the agent was at last able to get Brennan inside the room after several failed attempts. Once there, he maneuvered her close to one of the walls, where it was less likely she'd get hurt by the barrage of people continually pouring in and out.

Brennan tried to get her heart rate to slow; if Booth only knew the things she was doing to get to him, she'd be getting another good talking to.

It'd be well worth it just to hear his voice again.

There was a jarring conflagration of noise and activity all around her; shouted requests for medical supplies, for more technicians, people running back and forth with forensic equipment, a bomb squad going over every crumbling brick and every pitch-black alcove. Tall lamps as bright as the sun were being set up in the center of the room, bringing light into the otherwise Stygian space. With all that was happening, Brennan was having a hard time orienting herself. She tried picturing the room's layout in her mind, in order to determine where she currently was in reference to where she'd been before Booth had tricked her outside.

She recognized some of the details even when the circumstances were so vastly different from what they had been earlier this afternoon; the windows, the columns, the hooks.

And she was once again instinctively repulsed by the atmosphere of sadistic excess that ran through the space; almost a century of death that stretched on to this day.

But more than anything, she was afraid; afraid of facing whatever future lay beyond what was right in front of her, because as Rodriguez had warned, she might very well not like what was there. And yet her focus was drawn forward all the same, like a moth to the candle that would end up singing its wings first, and then burning it to death.

_Don't look._

But she had to-it was an essential component of who she was, the one thing she would never be able to change about herself, just as Booth could never put his safety first if there was someone else to protect.

Time stopped in its tracks as her eyes rose, and all points of reference were completely obliterated in the otherworldly setting. Millions of particles of dust were floating in the stagnant air, their slumber disturbed by the dozens of feet pounding back and forth across the creaky wooden floors. She was a tiny, immobile figurine trapped inside a giant snow-globe, watching the motes of dust dance around her in slow motion, like plastic snowflakes suspended in water; delicate and ethereal under the blinding glow of the artificial lights the FBI had just turned on. She was there, thick in the middle of all that was happening, but yet she wasn't a part of any of it.

She didn't know which area of the room to turn to first, or if she should turn anywhere at all.

_Don't look._

Overcoming the most deep-rooted of her fears, she peered with eyes half-closed to her right, and watched sick to her stomach as Agent Gustavson's body was being hoisted off one of the ubiquitous meat hooks by a group of his fellow FBI agents. Once they got him down, they placed him with almost religious reverence on the floor, in some kind of ceremonial last-rite. One of the men drew his hand over Gustavson's face and gently closed his eyes. They had done all this irrespective of the fact that neither the forensic photographer nor the coroner could possibly have had time to document what had happened to him.

She recalled having once told Booth that FBI guys were sentimental, and there might be no greater proof of that statement than what she was watching Gustavson's colleagues do. They weren't going to allow their comrade to go through the indignity of being memorialized for all time in some report hanging off the ceiling like a butchered animal, even if it meant compromising the evidence and going against every known forensic protocol and government regulation.

She supposed it no longer mattered; the Bureau already had its man and whatever condition he was in, it was highly unlikely he would be out in the world again. There was probably no real need for every piece of evidence to be photographed and recorded.

_Don't look._

She got a little bolder.

A darting look to her left showed her that the FBI forensic crew was doing there what they should have done with Gustavson: documenting for posterity whatever was on the floor that was holding their interest. Whomever they were focusing their attention on was dead, far beyond the help of modern medicine, as evidenced by the fact that there wasn't even a single paramedic in the vicinity of the victim. This time, numerous camera flashes were going off in quick succession, and she saw a body bag laying by, with a coroner waiting his turn to conduct a preliminary examination before the body was carted away to the morgue.

More by way of intense scrutiny on her part, and she would have known exactly who it was on that floor. Just one glance to determine whether it was Booth sprawled out there, lifeless, cold, or whether it was someone else. And if someone else, to go through the same agony all over again in just a few more seconds, a few feet farther away.

So was it worth it?

Brennan knew the time for stalling was long gone as the question that had been stalking her thoughts all day long came to the forefront to torment her.

There was nowhere left to hide, and nothing left to wait for. If that was Booth next to her, his heart forever silenced, would it still have been worth it? Would she do it all over again?

She saw it all with a sharpness of vision that baffled the senses and defied any logic.

She'd been a fool-how had she come to believe that she didn't already know? How could there have ever been any doubt?

Yes.

Yes, to everything, all of it. A life-affirming, thundering yes.

No matter what, yes; before, now, and always. And with that epiphany came a new appreciation for how strong she really was. Strong enough to love and be loved, even without that mantle of rationality and emotional distance in place that she had chosen to wear for years after her parents left. The one she had vowed to never discard because it made her feel invulnerable but which she had managed to lose somehow along the way regardless. When it came to Booth, she didn't need that anymore, even if their story wasn't meant to have a happy ending.

It was all worth, all of it. The fights, the compromises, the fears, the insecurities, the pain, the heartache. All worth it, because their bond transcended any of those problems just as she was sure it would transcend death, even if she wasn't a believer like he was; their friendship had comforted her for years, filled her with hope when she thought there was no longer room for any in her life. Their love made her feel alive and and brand new every single day, so her answer was an unequivocal yes.

She wouldn't trade any of it.

Even if it meant losing it all like this.

She had convinced herself that they had come together because they were weak, but now more than ever she understood that it was actually their combined strengths that allowed them to get this close to one another, that made them risk everything in order to be able to share this incredibly fulfilling life they had. Both she and Booth had broken free from the chains of a past that kept them isolated from the world and hurting, and venturing out into the open, they had reached for each other regardless of how fraught with danger this new enterprise was. Strength; that's why they worked, that's why they meshed, and that's why when they made love the first time, she could've sworn she had felt their separate entities distilling into one in a mysterious and wondrous kind of alchemy.

Funny, because that was the sort of thing that Booth would say. She smiled through her tears.

No matter what, she would never be alone ever again, because some part of Booth would always be with her, encouraging her to move forward, to live and to love, unhindered by the past even if his life ended today.

She forced her eyes to take a good look at the man on the floor-it wasn't him. It wasn't Booth.

Nor was it Sweets.

Grant; the same blonde, weak-chinned man whom she'd spoken to face-to-face earlier that afternoon. He'd been shot in the back; how many times, she couldn't determine from this distance.

She moved ahead, pushed on by a hard-fought courage and an never-ending thirst for the truth.

Several paramedics were furiously working over the prone body of another man on the other side of the room. She drew closer to the group.

_Don't look._

"Keep checking-find me that pulse, dammit!" one of them barked. "Jam that tube into the pleural cavity and drain that lung, now! Any sign of a pulse or a heartbeat yet?"

No one answered, and several of the emts looked at each other with doubting expressions, until one of them who was still listening to the victim's chest with a stethoscope put up her hand.

"It's faint, it's very, very faint, but I think I got something."

Brennan got closer. Although she couldn't see the man's features, she recognized the short, spiky, dark brown hair, even though it was heavily matted and coated in blood.

Booth. Her whole body tensed.

They were working on Booth, and he was still alive.

She made her way past several onlookers from law enforcement. When they saw who it was, they stood aside, allowing her to get closer to her partner.

"Find me a vein, stat! We need to get him started on some fluids; don't bother looking on the arms-they've probably all collapsed. Leg-cut through the pants."

Immediately after that command was issued, she saw someone make a tear in Booth's pants with a pair of scissors by his lower thigh, and a thick needle made it's way through his skin.

"You get that one going, you wait a minute, and you start another IV for the blood."

She vaguely remembered telling Hacker that the paramedics should bring in blood typed for each of the hostages, so that in the event one was needed, a transfusion could be initiated right away. She was glad he had listened.

"Keep up the compression on that wound, you hear me," the lead paramedic yelled at one of his subordinates.

It was all unraveling so quickly now, so very, very quickly as she looked on without truly processing much of anything at all. All that she knew was that she had never seen Booth looking this pale; only his hair, his eyebrows and a dark slash across his cheek had any real color-everything else, the rest that wasn't covered by the oxygen mask, was grey.

"Booth," she ventured meekly at first, and then louder, calling his name a second time, trying to make herself heard over the voices of the emergency workers.

"I'm here, Booth. Please, stay with me. Don't go."

Tears brimmed over and trailed down her face, and she fought the urge to lean in past the crouching paramedics and stroke his hair, to feel the warmth of his body, to beg him to hold on because she loved him more than she though she could ever love anyone.

She stayed back because it wasn't her place.

Just as she habitually chided outsiders for interfering with her work, the medics would order her away, and rightfully so because she would only be impeding their efforts to keep their patient alive. So she stood back, watching helplessly as several of the paramedics lifted Booth's limp, ashen frame onto a collapsible gurney and rolled him away, escorted out by the rest of the medical staff and several agents from the Bureau.

She didn't bother to ask if she could go with him-she knew what their answer would be, and besides, she'd only be in the way.

"Very, very careful on those stairs, guys; we need those IVs to stick. Don't jostle him, and keep his head elevated at all times. Go!"

It was only after the group was gone that she noticed Sweets in the corner, being attended to by another set of emts. They were checking his pupils with a flashlight as one of them bandaged his bleeding head. He was holding a gun, staring ahead with a lost look on his face. When one of the medics tried prying the weapon away from his fingers, he gripped it tighter and shook his arm vigorously to release the man's grasp.

"Sir, we have to take this from you; we're taking you to the ambulance now" one of them kept insisting, and finally Sweets let go. Brennan heard her friend talking to himself as he was eased into a stretcher.

"I can't believe it. I did it, I did it" he kept repeating with a shell-shocked expression. "It's so...weird" he went on, looking down at Grant's body as he passed by it. "It's unreal; like in a movie. I did it."

It was then that Brennan realized who had fired the shots that killed Grant; it was Sweets. Sweets had killed Grant.

"Brennan, hon, we have to go," she heard her friend's maternal voice coming from behind her; Angela must have followed her in. "I'm taking you to the hospital so they can check you out; it's time. Those contractions look like they're getting closer."

She didn't fight this time.

"I want to go to whichever facility Booth is being taken to" she replied, letting Angela steer her away.

"Done and done. Washington General it is; already checked. He's alive, sweetie" Angela said, smiling. "He's alive-now let's take care of you and that little baby girl, okay?"

Nodding, Brennan walked away. The nightmare, or at least this part of it, was finally over.


	37. Waiting

_Apologies for the delay-hope you like this one. Wrapping up all those loose ends..._

"Listen, Nurse Ratched" Angela sniped, for what felt like the umpteenth time in the last hour; it was the third administrative nurse they'd sent over to "manage" her and her "issue", and this one was turning out to be even more intransigent than the previous two. Each new encounter considerably lowered Angela's threshold for putting up with managerial incompetence.

Was she speaking just for the pleasure of hearing her own voice, or what?

It sure as heck felt that way.

"I need to know how the FBI agent they brought over by ambulance a little while ago is doing; his name is Seeley Booth. Is he still in surgery?"

When she got no response, she got crankier still.

"I've already explained to you guys a million times over that the lady over there" she said, singling out an uncomfortable looking Brennan with a no longer discreet tilt of the head, "is his professional partner _and_ his live-in girlfriend, and as you can plainly see, she's extremely pregnant with his kid. She's already had a one hell of a bad day, she's in labor-never mind that she's only 7 1/2 months along-and she absolutely refuses to go to the maternity ward where she belongs until she gets some sort of handle on her boyfriend's status. So please, please make an exception to that stupid privacy rule if you don't want a preemie popping out in your waiting area. We'll take anything."

The nurse looked back with unblinking, hazel eyes jaded to the point of dullness. Angela was sure that she couldn't have pretended to care less if she'd wanted to.

"I understand, Ms. Montenegro" her opponent spit back in a cold, even tone that said 'don't mess with me, I've spent too much of my life in this place dealing with wheedling, difficult people just like you and I'm not in the mood'; "but like _everyone_ else has already gone over with you in detail, due to HEPA regulations mandated by our Federal government in all of its infinite wisdom, the hospital can't share information about a patient's condition with anyone other than immediate family members. Bottom line, your friend doesn't meet the legal definition of an immediate family member, so until we get his proxy papers or he comes to and signs off on who we can and can't talk to, no info. I can tell you he's still in surgery and that's about it, and I'm pushing it there."

Angela tried again.

"Are you not paying attention? She's in labor" Angela parsed out, emphasizing every word as if she were talking to a dimwit. "She won't leave the emergency room to get herself checked out until she knows how he's doing. What part of this are you not getting? Can't you at least throw me a little bone over here? Don't you have even a vague memory of what having a heart is like?"

"I happen to have a heart, thank you very much" the woman retorted petulantly, her nose crinkling in a show of disdain.

"But I also happen to have my marching orders. No permission slip from the principal, no information" she finished sharply, still apparently piqued by Angela's 'no heart' comment. "It's the law, and we can't make exceptions for anyone; otherwise, where do we draw the line? Call someone at his office or talk to his lawyer and have them fax or pdf the proper documentation over, and _then_ we can talk all you want. And if your friend over there is really in that much trouble, I would advise you to just stop hanging around here arguing, and take her up to the third floor to have those contractions dealt with right away. Agent Booth's surgeons can get back to her in an hour or two when this whole legal issue's been resolved. I'm sorry, but I can't help you and neither can anyone else in this hospital."

The nurse's final remark was definitely on the snippy end of the conversational spectrum, unleashed as she was walking away and calling out a patient's name loudly to make it clear that she was washing her hands of this latest mess which had the ill-timing of landing smack in the middle of her watch.

"Arrrrg!" Angela groaned, close to pulling out every strand of hair on her head in frustration. She reluctantly admitted that she was probably partly to blame for the lack of cooperation by the nursing staff because of her refusal to play nice at the beginning of this whole debacle, but she also figured it probably wouldn't have mattered how she went at the thing; this was pure, bureaucratic process at its most Byzantine, and no amount of diplomacy was likely to make one lick of a difference.

She glanced back at Brennan sitting in one of the no-frills chairs in the emergency room's waiting area, and she could tell by the way she occasionally gripped the arms of the seat hard while grimacing that the poor girl was hanging on for dear life. Hodgins and Cam were sitting alongside her without saying much, probably because by now they had talked themselves hoarse just like she herself had, all to no avail.

With a giant scowl on her face, Angela walked back over to the small group, growing increasingly irritated with every step she took by just how hideously inflexible everyone around her was insisting on being of late. And unfortunately, first on that list of inflexibles was her own best friend, one Doctor Temperance Brennan.

"She won't do it, sweetie, and neither will anyone else. I'm sorry" she said with pursed lips.

As she spoke, Angela made a concerted effort to paste a more suitable expression on her face and to moderate the shrillness in her voice accordingly to avoid further bruising an already haggard-looking Brennan.

"You know how terrified these people are about getting fired for handing out information without every t getting crossed and every i getting dotted first. I've tried reaching Hacker, but apparently he's busy talking to the press, and I can't seem to be able to get a hold of anyone else at the warehouse-I think there's just too much going on there. I could try calling the Hoover again to see if someone there can send a pdf to the hospital with whatever they need, but that could take a while," she warned; "it's a busy night, with all that's happened. There's always Booth's grandfather..."

Looking torn, Brennan shook her head.

"No; he lives too far away and I don't want to upset him any more than he probably already is. It's my fault," she said quietly. "I left my purse in the mobile lab, and it has all of Booth's legal paperwork in it; I always carry it with me. I should have been more careful."

An expression of tenderhearted concern appeared on Angela's face. "No, honey, it's not your fault; you were dealing with something a _little_ more important than keeping track of your purse. It's too bad we couldn't get our hands on Booth's wallet before it was bagged as evidence-I'm sure it had everything in it that we needed."

"There's also a copy at our safe at home, but for some reason I can't remember the combination; maybe if I was standing in front of it...I really don't want to leave, though."

Angela glanced at Hodgins in alarm. "No, you're definitely not going anywhere outside this building," she remarked.

"So what now?" Cam asked.

Shaking her head unhappily at the three people sitting in front of her, Angela's hands suddenly morphed into talons. This whole situation was borderline ridiculous-beyond ridiculous, really. It was dangerous, and someone had to find the guts to put an end to it right now.

"This is crazy, you know?" she finally exploded, directing most of her repressed crabbiness at Brennan, notwithstanding her recent vow to remain patient with her friend. "You're crazy for not heading straight to obstetrics, I'm crazy for helping you along when I should have just hit you over the head and drug you there the minute we got here, and Hodgins and Cam" she declared accusingly, "you're both crazy for going along with the two of us. And that nurse over there" she said, glowering menacingly at the woman she'd just dealt with and looking like she was on the verge of pouncing on the old battle-axe, "that nurse is a certified bit-"

"Whoa, Ange, calm down" Hodgins said, jumping out of his chair and putting a restraining hand on Angela's forearm, just in case. "Tell you what, my most lovely, wonderful, sweetheart of a wife, _I'll_ go back to the warehouse, break one of the windows of the station and crawl in if there's no other choice, and I'll bring back Doctor Brennan's paperwork, assuming I don't get arrested first. You just keep trying to reach the FBI. And you" he finished, tipping his head at his pregnant boss, "you really need to go upstairs, Dr. Brennan. We'll call you when we have what we need."

"Amen to that" Cam said sitting upright in her chair, her hands laced primly together as they rested on her lap. She was wearing an expression of rapidly fading forbearance while she looked squarely at Brennan.

"I'm not even going to bring up the word 'reasonable' in the current context;" she said calmly, addressing her recalcitrant co-worker; "I'm afraid that train left the station hours ago. So we'll go with sane then, a word I know you can usually get on board with, Dr. Brennan, even if it's not one you generally approve of because of its rather broad, catch-all definition. But I'm sure you get my drift regardless. So let's you, Angela and me do the sane thing here and take the elevator upstairs so someone can look at you."

Not surprisingly, Brennan wasn't budging.

"Temperance" Cam entreated, throwing a little more heft into her voice to show that she was dead serious about the request, "you being here won't change what's happening to Booth in any way, but it might very well affect the baby you two are expecting. That wouldn't be good for anyone, but least of all for Seeley when he comes to. And he _will_ come to, mark my words. Seeley's one tough cookie, and he has a lot to live for, particularly these days-and he sure as hell knows that. I saw it in his eyes when I walked past him in the warehouse; how much he loves you and values the life he has with you. You've done your part, now let the doctors do theirs."

"No; I can wait" Brennan replied obstinately, looking like a tantrummy child defying her parents and doing a pretty decent job at holding her ground despite the growing pile of both promises and threats from the adults. She reminded Angela of her own son; how Michael could get so wound up right before bedtime that sometimes it was impossible for him to stop crying and just go to sleep, which so happened to be the very same thing he needed in order make things better.

Poor Brennan she thought, feeling slightly more charitable towards her friend after the recent harangue she'd let loose on her; she'd been fighting the good fight for so long today, saying 'no' so many times on Booth's behalf, that now that they had finally reached the point where she could just stop struggling because the enemy had finally been vanquished, she didn't seem to quite know how to end the hostilities.

Just like Michael and the tiredness he regularly railed and wailed against. The more exhausted he got, the less cooperative he became.

But the big difference between her friend and her son was that Michael would eventually fall asleep, even if his parents' eardrums continued to pay a price as he slumbered; with Brennan though, the 'nos' could theoretically go on indefinitely, or at least until she passed out from the pain or that baby girl decided to make an all-too early arrival into the world.

"Go, go" Angela said impatiently, shooing Hodings away. "And please try not to get thrown in jail-I can't manage one more crisis today. Take your wallet, in case they accept credit cards in lieu of cash for bail."

Hodgins was grinning as he jogged through the sliding doors on his way to the parking lot. He knew that some people assumed that because his wife was an artist and a free spirit she was also a bit of a scatterbrained airhead, but no one could have handled all that she was forced to juggle in the last few hours with more aplomb and efficacy than the woman he had married. She never ceased to surprise him, and he loved surprises.

Always had.

After Hodgins left, the three waiting women stared vacantly at each other in some sort of mute impasse, but when another set of contractions hit with an obviousness that even a blind person couldn't miss, Brennan's pain-clouded face suddenly seemed uncertain.

She was beginning to waver.

"Maybe I should go," the scientist declared unhappily.

Her eyes seemed to be making some sort of silent, desperate appeal to Cam and Angela, and the friends realized in unison that she was wordlessly begging for their help, seeking their guidance, looking for anything at all from them that would tell her it was okay to leave when she really didn't want to because it felt too much like she was deserting her post in an act of treachery. Something that would _make_ her leave, because at this point even she had to have realized that no good could come from waiting even if her heart kept telling her that she should stay on no matter what.

Angela was relieved; relieved to see that her friend's common sense was finally making a return appearance after having gone awol most of the afternoon. But on studying Brennan more closely and seeing the dark purple circles under her red-rimmed eyes and the hard-set lines of worry and exhaustion already criss-crossing her face, the artist found that she simply wasn't able to derive much satisfaction from what should have been a huge moral victory. She knew that deep down it was killing her pal to abandon her partner without first getting any sort of word on Booth's condition, and that this lack of closure might potentially affect what happened next at obstetrics.

She sighed; she loved her best friend dearly, it just so happened that on certain days that was easier to do that than on others. Today wasn't turning out to be one of the easy days.

"Okay, tell you what" she said sternly, "I'm going to try one last-ditch thing before we go, just to see if I can put your mind at ease; but if it doesn't work, we're going straight to the third floor without you mouthing off as much as a peep-is that clear?"

Brennan nodded meekly.

"And this time" Angela said, pulling out her phone and smiling unkindly, "I'm not waiting for someone at the FBI to feel like calling me back. No more Mr. Nice Guy for me-I'm not taking _any_ prisoners on this round."

She walked away to an unpopulated corner of the room to make her mysterious call, returning almost immediately.

"Well?" Cam asked.

It seemed inconceivable that anything productive could have come out of such a short conversation.

"You both just wait" Angela whispered cryptically, looking at her watch. Less than five minutes later a strikingly attractive, sharp-dressed man in his late forties walked into the waiting area, heading straight towards Angela. Distinguished looking strands of longish silver hair framed his chiseled, well-bred features.

"Mrs. Hodgins" he said with a slight German accent while giving Angela an elusive smile, "pleasure to see you again, even if the current circumstances are less than optimal."

The "Mrs. Hodgins" immediately caused Cam and Brennan to exchange perplexed looks. They both knew their friend had laughed out loud when someone at the lab had dared to ask if she would ever go by her husband's name. "What's wrong with Montenegro?" she shot back, good-humoredly. "It's exotic and kind of mysterious, and it happens to be mine-I like it, and so does Hodgins. Works for everyone."

And yet here she was, suddenly and without complaint a 'Mrs. Hodgins'.

"Yes, good to see you too, Dr. Mertz, and thank you for coming by so quickly."

"When you summon, I come" he said, bowing with exaggerated politeness.

Angela bit her lip.

"This is Dr. Johannes Mertz; he's one of the head administrators at Washington General and he also sits on the hospital's board with Hodgins. Dr. Mertz has kindly offered to help us, Brennan. This is Dr. Camille Saroyan from the Jeffersonian" she said, looking at Cam, and this is..."

Brennan made a move to stand, but the doctor stopped her. "Please, Dr. Brennan, don't exert yourself more than you already have. I heard from Angela-Mrs. Hodgins" he corrected, as he and Angela seemed to enjoy some sort of inside joke, "about your predicament. She tells me that you're determined not to leave the ER until you find out how Agent Booth is doing. I'm going to make a deal with you; I'll tell you what's going on with him-at some potential peril to my career-if you can assure me that immediately thereafter you will go to obstetrics and follow their recommendations, whatever they are. Yes?"

"Yes, I promise" Brennan replied solemnly.

"Very well then, here's the latest information I've been given. The surgeons just finished closing Agent Booth up a few minutes ago, and he'll be transferred to the recovery area as soon as he starts coming out of anesthesia. While he's technically in critical but stable condition and will probably continue to be labelled officially as such for the next few hours, I can tell you that so far every indication is that he's going to make a full recovery."

Brennan sagged back into her chair with visible relief, while continuing her careful scrutiny of the patrician Dr. Mertz.

"And his injuries, can you be more specific about them?" she asked. "Did the bullet strike his spinal column? Were any of his vital organs affected by the loss of blood?"

"Considering what he went through and how long he managed to hold out for, Agent Booth is actually a very lucky man. The bullet pierced a lung and lodged in one of his posterior ribs, just millimeters away from his spinal cord, which I've been assured was not damaged in any way. The fact that there was no exit wound was a good thing; it meant that there was less overall hemorrhaging than there could have been. All his major organs seem to be functioning properly, although his attending physician is considering putting Agent Booth on dialysis for a few days just to give his kidneys a break; he's had several pints of bloods and quite a lot of other fluids pumped into his body over the last two hours, and it could end up putting a little too much stress on his renal system. There, have I adequately addressed all of your concerns?" he finished with a smile.

"Brain damage? The lack of oxygen..."

Mertz held in a surprised laugh; he clearly wasn't used to being cross-examined to such exacting degree by families of patients, most of which were usually more than satisfied with the 'full recovery part' of his speech, but he had already gathered that the woman he was talking to was far from your average family member.

"Please don't worry so much, Dr. Brennan. Agent Booth was in excellent physical condition prior to this incident, and our best guess is that right until the time he was rescued he was doing everything he could to minimize the bleeding because, quite frankly, if he hadn't been doing that, we might not be having this fairly uplifting conversation at all. The surgical staff is optimistic that he hasn't suffered any permanent brain damage. He came to briefly as he was being prepped for surgery; although he was confused and disoriented, as you would expect, he appeared to be coherent enough-he even asked about about you, Dr. Brennan, although he kept referring to you as 'Bones'. It took us a while to figure out who or what he meant by that."

As soon as she heard that reference to Booth's name for her, Brennan's face brightened considerably, and she looked younger by at least a decade.

"I honestly think he'll be fine as long as there are no unforeseen complications in the near future, although by no means am I saying that his will be an easy recovery. After the initial threat of internal bleeding is over, he'll have to go through intensive physical therapy in order to build his strength back up, and he'll have to take it easy at home for a while, which I've been told isn't necessarily the easiest thing in the world for him to do. But like I said, he's a very lucky man-a guardian angel must have been looking out for him, because it was pretty much touch and go up until the time he got into surgery."

Brennan thought of the medal in her pocket, and silly as it sounded, she inwardly whispered several words of thanks to Pops for having given it to Booth even if she didn't personally believe in its supposedly miraculous powers.

The doctor reached out for Brennan's hand.

"Now for your part of the bargain, Dr. Brennan. I also understand that Agent Booth is extremely protective of the people he loves, and the last thing I want is for him to wake up and find out we didn't take proper care of his girlfriend or his unborn daughter. You go upstairs, and I promise that the hospital will keep you appraised of his condition throughout the evening._ I_ will personally let you know if anything changes."

"Thank you, Dr. Mertz; I don't know how I can ever repay you for your kindness" Brennan said simply.

"Just don't tell anyone about our little deal-Jack Hodgins will back me up when I say that the Board has a lot of fossilized old men on it who live in abject terror of violations of Federal mandates and the lawsuits that follow them, and we don't want to give any of them premature heart attacks. They're already on their way out; they don't need any additional help from me."

"And you, Angela" he said in a low voice, "you really didn't have to pull out all the stops with that 'Mrs. Hodgins' thing-a little extreme, don't you agree? Although it sure got the attention of my assistant-I suppose she might not have passed the call along without it. But you know I would have helped you out even if your husband's foundation didn't fund practically the entire pediatric wing, just because you are so very beautifully charming and magnetic. And besides" he said, lowering his voice, "you and I go way back, lest you forget, and you've always gotten your way with me, since the very beginning. Fortunate man, that Jack Hodgins;" he mused poetically, not caring who heard it. "One of these days I'll have to have a chat with him and ask him how he did it, captured that rare butterfly that never was able to stay put before and somehow continues to keep her content in one place." He winked at her playfully, and Angela blushed.

"Bye, Johannes-we'll all have to go to dinner sometime."

The suave, handsome doctor's eyes twinkled mischievously as he walked away.

"What was _that_ all about?" Cam asked outright, without feeling a hint of shame at her blatant nosiness. "You two seemed _very_ friendly."

"We _were-_um...we used to go out, years ago, Angela fumbled. "Before Hodgins, of course. Still as good looking and debonair as ever, though" she added wistfully, as his figure retreated into the background. "Always reminded me a little of Cary Grant, the way he carries himself. He's one smooth operator."

"Indeed" Cam answered in full unity of feeling. "Time to go" she said, finally breaking free from the charismatic doctor's spell. She turned to Brennan and helped her out of her chair; better to strike while the iron was hot and pliable, she decided, before there was yet another change of mind.

"Honey, did you hear that-Booth's going to be okay. Isn't that wonderful?" Angela exclaimed, beaming joyously at her friend.

It was only then that the accumulated stress of the day finally hit the anthropologist in one unstoppable, monstrous backlash, like a taut rope breaking free from its mooring and angrily whipping backwards with the full power of released tension, striking like an angry whip at the ship it used to hold safe. Clinging to Angela as if her life depended on it, Brennan wept wildly into her friend's shoulder, her whole body wracked by great big sobs. An unlikely response from someone who normally kept her emotions so closely guarded, but really, the most human of all reactions in the world given the massive amounts of strain she'd been put through already and all the things she had come so very close to losing.

"He's okay, sweetie, he's okay" Angela went on reassuringly, letting her friend cry it out as she hugged her back, because she knew there was an essential need to give all that pent-up emotion some room to expand before it did permanent damage to the carrier. "Now let's make sure that you're okay too."

The three women headed towards the elevators, but while Cam and Angela were concentrating all of their attention on keeping their coworker steady on her feet and moving forward, Brennan's eyes remained glued to the doors leading to the surgical wing, right until the very last moment that the elevator doors came together with a soft 'thump'.


	38. Family Reunion

They say that warm, sunny days bring with them their own special kind of healing energy, and as a bright, early-autumn morning dawned over Washington General Hospital, the lovely weather seemed to oblige, raising the spirits of most of the people inside it as if by decree. It also lit up a pair of vivacious brown eyes peeking into a semi-dark patient's room in the hospital's ICU wing.

Hodgins, sensing his wife's presence by force of habit, shook himself awake, sitting bolt-upright after doing a not particularly graceful shimmy on the seat he'd been unsuccessfully trying to get comfortable in for over half the night. Hospital chairs were death personified, a fact that he could personally attest to after doing battle with one for hours; a form of torture perpetrated on the unwary by the American Medical Association, as revenge for the thousands of malpractice lawsuits brought over the years against some of its more incompetent members.

"How's our sleeping beauty doing?" Angela asked, nodding towards the bed to which a slumbering Booth was tethered securely by an IV line and what looked like a million miles of wire. Little blips of colored lights, blinking on and off across several monitor screens like fireflies, kept the staff at the nurses' station appraised on his condition.

"He's been in and out all morning, but so far, so good. I gotta warn you, though..."

Hodgins was prevented from finishing the play-by-play by the wounded man himself.

"Hey," Booth said groggily, his eyes adjusting slowly to the slanted rays of sunlight stealing in through the closed window blinds. Angela almost burst out into peals of laughter when she heard what came out of his mouth next because the words were dyed-in-the-wool, vintage Booth. The man could be withering away on his deathbed at age one hundred, and his primary focus in life would still be one and the same.

"How's Bones?" he asked anxiously.

His voice was raspy, and he grimaced painfully as he swallowed.

"I heard she spent the night at the hospital-did the contractions stop for good?" he badgered. "I called her this morning as soon as I woke up, but she didn't pick up."

Angela's eyes travelled over to her husband's, and he shrugged.

"Hodgins! You told him?" she asked, visibly annoyed.

"Yup-guilty as charged."

"You were supposed to say that Brennan went home to take a nap if he asked about her!"

"Com'on, Ange," Hodgins countered defensively. "The minute he snapped out of it and realized that Dr. Brennan was nowhere to be found, he had a fit. Look, I've seen him get up from a hospital bed and rip off all his medical contraptions after getting blown up to go looking for her before, so I figured that honesty was the best policy here. You _know_ him; he would've jumped to the conclusion that something even worse was going on, even all doped up as he is. He's an FBI guy, for cryin' out loud-they're naturally suspicious people. At least he stayed put when I told him the truth."

So maybe Angela wasn't entirely satisfied with her husband's explanation for refusing to follow clear, explicit orders, but instead of nailing him to the wall for his treachery as he deserved, she just sighed and decided to roll with the punches.

"She's doing great, Booth; I took her phone away, so she could rest. But it so happens that on my way here, I found a certain lovely, forlorn and still very pregnant señorita wandering the hallways of the hospital after getting discharged from the maternity ward, looking for her prince charming."

The artist swung the door wide, and Brennan stepped into the room with unexpected shyness; her eyes met Booth's, and the Hodgins-Montenegro team suddenly felt both invisible _and_ superfluous, if anyone was interested.

"It's alright, Angela. I'm fine, Booth," Brennan reassured her mate while giving him a clandestine once-over. "Only you would worry about me when you were on the verge of dying yourself" she said with a half-hearted smile, inwardly cringing at how roughed-up Booth looked, particularly now that the bruise on his left cheekbone had swelled and spread upwards, giving him a fairly distinctive black eye.

Brennan rounded the corner of her partner's bed and stood beside him silently, surprised to find that in spite of all she had planned to say to him, her heart was simply too overrun by conflicting emotions for her to be able to say much, as she let her mind accept the now incontrovertible fact that Booth was still very much alive. She finally had her proof, the one she'd been seeking all along, and it was almost too much to bear. To have had returned to you what you were certain was gone forever-how on earth was anything in the human language supposed to express the joy and gratitude of getting the man she loved back?

Booth reached out for her hand, and she finally gathered just the right amount of mettle to touch him, to return the reassuring pressure of his fingers, in an act that had seemed beyond the realm of possibility less than twenty-four hours ago. He was still very pale and the pain medication kept making his eyes flutter sleepily, but loss of blood and Vicodin or not, Booth was still Booth and Brennan had never been so content to be in the direct line of fire of one of his diatribes, exactly like he'd been in hers yesterday morning.

The irony of their role-reversal wasn't lost on her.

"Bones-why are you up?" he asked full of self-righteousness, putting a hand on her pregnant belly. The question didn't catch anyone by surprise.

"Shouldn't you be on bed rest at the maternity ward? You were having all those contractions…"

Their audience was beginning to grow increasingly restless; the scene felt just too painfully intimate for Angela and Hodgins to continue watching it unfold in any amount of comfort. But how to gracefully get out of the couple's way and give them some alone time?

"You know what I need?" Hodgins blurted out before the explanations and the displays of affection he was certain were about to bloom could begin for real. "Coffee. Coffee and pudding-they've been very stingy with the pudding cups around here," he exclaimed with manic zest. "I guess they aren't considered healthy enough anymore-can you believe that? Damned food Nazis. You want to join me, babe?" The tilt-of-the-head gesture he made towards the door couldn't have been more obvious.

Angela did a mental tango with her extremely limited options; she'd been asked to keep close tabs on her friend and to take her home as soon as possible, but both Brennan and Booth had fought too hard to have their one special moment together stripped away from them so soon.

"Coffee sounds good" she finally agreed. "One hour-I'm giving you one hour of visitation rights with your honey. Sitting down, and not moving an inch" she instructed Brennan. "And then I'm taking you home with me, where you will lie down and not lift a finger until I bring you back to meet and greet with him tomorrow."

"Thank you, Angela. And not just for this," Brennan said sincerely. "For everything."

"Yeah, you two," Booth joined in. "I know neither one of you got much sleep last night."

Hodgins smiled and shook his head in disbelief.

"Don't even think about it" he replied, downplaying his contributions; "it was nothing-and I mean that. My God, it was the very least we could do. Cam and I probably wouldn't even be alive if it wasn't for you, Booth. Besides, we took turns, so we all got some shut-eye at some point. Wendell and me with you, Cam and Ange with Brennan, Daisy and her sister with Sweets. Just wish there were more pudding cups around, that's all."

The group shared a brief laugh together that felt perhaps felt a little too forced, and Angela and her hubby promptly made their exit, relieved to have escaped their role as unwilling and presumably unwanted voyeurs.

As soon as the door closed, Brennan pulled up the chair Hodgins had been using and sat down next to her partner, lowering the guard rail that kept them apart. He still looked incredibly wan to her, but so much better than the last time she'd seen him.

"The contractions," he repeated anxiously.

"Are over. As soon as I was admitted to the maternity ward, I was given intravenous fluids and dosed with magnesium sulfate to counteract them and they stopped completely within a few hours. The staff at obstetrics kept me overnight only to verify that they weren't returning."

"And the baby?"

"She's fine-can you feel her kicking?" she asked affectionately, covering his strong, weathered fingers with hers and unconsciously tightening her grip around them. She felt lacerations on his hand that hadn't been there before. "I'm convinced that our daughter already recognizes your touch; I believe she missed you."

His face beamed with the unpracticed happiness of a child, as it did whenever he felt their baby moving inside her mother's tummy.

"And you're sure you're both okay?"

"Yes, I'm sure, Booth; the doctors injected me with corticosteroids to help her lungs mature in case she arrived early despite all the other precautions, but as you can see, she didn't need them; it doesn't appear that she's going anywhere, at least for a while. I can vouch for the fact that Angela and Cam would not have allowed me to leave obstetrics even after I was officially released from the hospital if they felt there was even a remote chance that it would trigger an early labor. They were quite intractable when it came to our baby's wellbeing."

"Good for them. And you ate and drank lots this morning?"

Life was slowly returning to its usual cadence, a fact which Brennan accepted without resentment. Had it really only been a day ago that they were having an argument over her ability to take care of herself?

"Yes, I ate very well."

He turned his head, suddenly unable to look her in the eye. He was retreating somewhere, and he seemed sad.

"You shouldn't have had to go through all that-I should have never taken you in there with me. I'm sorry. It's my fault that our kid almost showed up when it wasn't time for her to get here. So much for looking out for the two of you and knowing what's best for everyone."

"Technically" she said, herself looking away contritely, "my failure to drink enough water during the day was what led to the pre-term contractions. They actually had very little to do with you."

Booth pictured the water bottle sitting on the windowsill, how his thoughts had gone to it so many times during his ordeal as a reminder of all he had to live for, and he wondered if it was still there. No matter; he was planning on getting her another one anyway, one with a more cheerful design on it, like maybe hearts and flowers. Or puppies-puppies made everything better. Everybody loved puppies.

"And you only took me to the warehouse to make me feel better," she went on remorsefully, catching his attention once again. "If I hadn't been in such a pugnacious mood earlier, we would have both been at home when the stand-off began and you wouldn't have come so close to losing your life. In the future, I will endeavor not to be so..."

"Nah-let's not do this" he said, cutting her off in a friendly way. "We're together, the three of us, and that's the only thing I care about right now. There were times in there when I thought..."

He stopped, closing his eyes to ward off the soul-eating memories. He would deal with those later, when he didn't have the most beautiful, amazing woman in the world by his side, fussing over him.

"Hey-I heard from some of the guys this morning about all the stuff you did for me-you even took on Hacker and his chronic fear of messing up" he chuffed, changing the tone of their conversation to keep that foggy brain of his on track. Their eternal Ping-Pong game of blame could be postponed indefinitely and they'd both be better for it; a ceasefire, he felt, that should start this very moment.

"That took guts, especially with the shape you were in. I can't believe you and the squints were able to figure out my message" he said, still in awe of their skills. "Actually, I can, 'cause you're the smartest person on the planet" he finished, eyeing her proudly.

"It was a team effort," Brennan answered truthfully.

She took the opportunity to inspect him more closely, now that she was feeling slightly less irrational and his defenses appeared to be down.

"Your injuries are quite severe; is the amount of pain medication they're giving you adequate? I could request additional narcotics for you, if you feel you need them."

Squinting up at her with a goofy grin, he held up his arm to show where the IV drip was connected to his wrist.

"You know, I probably haven't felt this good since the shot in the butt I got after that Christmas epidemic thing. My throat hurts like hell, though."

"Because of the injury to your lung, you were intubated throughout most of the night to insure that your oxygen levels remained consistent; the procedure unfortunately tends to leave the trachea inflamed. At my request, the doctors examined you early this morning and they determined that the uninjured lung was performing well enough on its own that the breathing tube could be removed. They did it before you regained consciousness; I knew you would find it very uncomfortable once you woke up."

Brennan's eyes misted up involuntarily as she continued her detailed examination of her mate.

"Your face is bruised" she said, her hand delicately grazing his injured cheek. "But you certainly look better than the last time I saw you." The image from the warehouse-Booth lying on the floor in a puddle of his own blood, white as a sheet and unresponsive-inadvertently flashed across her eyes and she winced, sorry to have brought up the forbidden topic of her act of blatant disobedience.

"You shouldn't have gone in there, Bones-I told you not to look" he said, ignoring his promise to cut them both some slack.

But then he broke into another smile, bent on not spoiling their special, hard-earned time. "You're one feisty, stubborn woman, Bones."

"And that's why you love me."

"Yeah, that, and for tons of other reasons. You want me to say them all out loud?"

"No; that's not necessary-it would only make your throat hurt more." Still watching his every move, she snuck an "I love you too, Booth" at the end of the sentence, relieved to have finally gotten yesterday's undelivered message out in the open.

"Had something happened to you while you were being held hostage, I would have found it very difficult to live with the regret of knowing that I could have said those words to you at some point during the day, but I didn't."

"But now you can tell me all the time; I won't mind."

"Yes, I can. And I will."

She leaned over and kissed him softly, savoring the exact moment in which their lips met, making sure to tuck that memory away in a safe place for later. They remained in a peaceful, dreamy silence for several minutes, their foreheads barely touching, until Booth's voice broke the spell.

"I'm glad that Sweets and the girl got out okay; at the end there, I wasn't sure what was going on, or who was still around" he said quietly. Brennan detected unspoken words of loss and guilt sprinkled throughout that seemingly casual statement.

"But not Gustavson" Brennan replied, knowing the death of the agent would haunt Booth for a very long time.

"No, not Erik."

Acutely aware by now of how little good that would do, she tried reasoning with her partner because she loved him and she didn't want to see him punishing himself like he so often did when things around him went wrong.

"You can't blame yourself, Booth. It was an extremely volatile situation and he volunteered for the mission, even knowing how dangerous it was. Your joint efforts saved dozens, perhaps even hundreds of people. It could just as easily have been you whose life Grant took."

"Yeah, but it wasn't. It was _my_ plan; he was just doing what I asked him to do, and he didn't make it out. He was going to retire to Florida with his wife in two weeks."

She could tell that he was beginning to slip into a cold, distant place where soon she wouldn't be able to reach him no matter how hard she tried.

"What color do you prefer?" she asked, by way of a complete non-sequitor.

"Color? Color of what?"

"For the baby's room; since neither you nor I will be in a position to paint our daughter's bedroom prior to her arrival, Hodgins and Angela have offered to do it for us."

The absurd question brought him right back to her, just as she'd hoped.

"Magenta-or pepto bismol pink," he said with a huge yawn, and obviously no real thought given to the answer. Those tonal choices were appalling, she decided critically, scrunching up her face in distaste.

"I was thinking of something more soothing and understated; perhaps lilac, or cerulean."

"Lavender, lemony" he retorted incoherently, as he fought bravely-but ultimately in vain-to keep his eyelids from closing all the way. "Sherbet, or grape, like sugar plums...'

Brennan smiled approvingly. The pain medication was obviously working very well, she noted, as she watched him fall fast asleep in the middle of reciting nonsense. She scooted her chair as close as she could to his bed, carefully turning herself so that she could rest her head next to his on his pillow without putting any stress on her abdomen. Her forehead went against his temple, and she lazed against him, taking in the stubble that was beginning to shade in his cheeks, the intermittent, labored way he was breathing.

Never again would an emerging beard or a soft snoring sound be experienced in quite the same way-nor would they ever be taken for granted like they'd been so many times in the past.

Together, they were together; what had always been two would soon be turning into three, into a family, and absolutely nothing in the universe could compare to the boundless good fortune to be found in that head-turner of a notion. The woman who had so long ago resigned herself to what she thought was her fate-to always be alone-no longer was. It was a miracle, pure and simple; and rational, even-keeled Temperance Brennan was willing to yield to the notion, at least for today, that such things not only existed, but that she had actually experienced one of them for herself.


	39. and Baby Duck Makes Four

Leaving a reluctant, nail-biting Daisy behind at the nurses' station, Sweets made his way unsteadily towards Booth's door. Once he got there-still under Daisy's watchful tutelage-he put his ear against it and heard...nothing.

The lack of conversation inside the room finally emboldened him, and he pushed it open, strolling in to check up on his mentor without giving it any extra thought. His mouth gaped open in horror when he realized that Booth wasn't alone after all, and that he had just unknowingly barged in on his injured partner and his girlfriend as the two were sharing a private moment.

It's not that they were doing anything inappropriate like smooching or-God forbid-other stuff, which he knew in Booth's condition would have been impossible anyway. Their heads were resting side by side innocently, Dr. Brennan's chestnut-colored hair draped over one of Booth's shoulders, the couple apparently asleep.

But it was still a private thing, and he was still intruding on it.

He tried retracing his steps, backing out as quietly as could, but Dr. Brennan's sharp hearing caught up with him before he could make good on his escape.

"Sweets" she said, lifting her head off Booth's pillow. "You can come in."

"Oh gosh, no; I didn't mean to bother you guys-I thought Booth was alone. Besides, he's sleeping; I think I'll just come back later."

"Come on, stay" Booth asked with a little prompting whine, still half-sleep. "What, are they letting you out too?"

"No, not yet; they're keeping me under observation for another 24 hours. The head trauma specialist said that after you've been out as long as I was, you need to be monitored in-house for at least 48 hours in case there's any chance of blood vessels suddenly rupturing inside the brain. In fact, I'm scheduled for another CT scan in an hour."

Although bandages covered a good third of his head, overall, Sweets didn't look that much the worse for wear given what had happened to him.

"The nurses shouldn't have allowed you to walk here unassisted" Brennan told him, frowning at what she perceived to be the hospital's gross neglect. "You could suffer a dizzy spell and fall, further worsening your existing concussion."

"Oh, Daisy walked me over-she's waiting outside. I figured it was better if I came in alone. I didn't think Booth would be up to dealing with her usual state of joie de vivre just yet."

Booth nodded in agreement, inwardly thanking his lucky stars for having dodged that very loud, very perky bullet.

"Maybe later" he said by way of non-committal reply, careful not to hurt Sweets' feelings with one of his usual over-the-top remarks about Daisy.

Sweets approached Booth's bed slowly, leaning against the guard rail for support.

"Hodgins and Angela stopped by a while ago and told me you were doing much better; I'm incredibly glad-I was really concerned about your safety last night. I heard there was a good deal of drama over at the surgical ward when they brought you in" he said.

"Yeah, I'm getting there. What about you?" Booth asked, tilting his head with curiosity at his junior partner, awake enough now to notice all the gauze. "Gotta tell you Sweets, for a while there, when we were inside that warehouse, I thought you were a goner. I didn't see you move once."

"My head hurts a lot, and unfortunately they can't give me any narcotics," Sweets complained mildly. "That Edwards girl might have just kept me from crossing into the afterlife, though. I did regain consciousness a few times immediately after Grant struck me, but the way she was looking at me made me think that I should just stay where I was until I had an opportunity to make some kind of move."

"Yeah, she's one brave girl, that Kaylie Edwards. First chance I get, I'm going to talk to her parents; I want them to know how well their daughter held up all during that entire mess. They should be proud of her, even if her grandfather _is_ a pompous jackass."

"It seems to have been quite a Jeffersonian/Hoover reunion here last night," Sweets commented. "I heard that even Caroline made the rounds. And you, Dr. Brennan," he said, shifting his attention to the anthropologist and giving her a warm smile, "I see that you're doing rather well yourself-there was also quite a bit of concern over you last night."

"I'm fine" Brennan replied. She left it at that, appreciative and at the same time weary of all the attention. She didn't mind being singled out for her professional accomplishments, but gaining notoriety for personal issues was supremely vexing.

As he looked Sweets over with a mischievous smile, Booth's face glowed with a spark of good humor and the younger man knew that something was up.

"What?" Sweets exclaimed, raising his eyebrows in suspicion.

"You know, this hero-worship thing you have going on has _got_ to stop; now you're even starting to dress like me" Booth said with a straight face, pointing at Sweets' gown. His new partner looked down at himself and laughed.

"Well, what can I say; I strive to imitate only the very best."

"But seriously" Booth continued, "I know you saved my life in there, Sweets; thanks for that-your timing couldn't have been better, by the way, in case you didn't already know. Just tell me one thing," he asked, perplexed. "How'd you manage to get a hold of a gun? Grant took yours away-he told me-and he wasn't exactly leaving anything around for someone to use against him."

"About the dressing alike thing" Sweets said in a halting voice, his cheeks tingeing straightaway with a rosy flush that betrayed his embarrassment; "you know how sometimes you carry a second gun strapped to your calf when there's a serious potential for danger? Well, I've sort of been doing that a lot since I got my permit; Grant must not have bothered to check anywhere else after he found the first one. I guess having that hidden gun made me feel like more of a real FBI agent, instead of just a psychologist pretending to be a cop. Somewhat immature, I know" he fessed, as he prepared himself for more friendly harassment. "Go ahead, you can lay it on me; you know you want it."

"Hey, are you kidding? I'm not in a position to bug you about that," Booth offered without sarcasm. "The truth is that without that extra gun, none of us might have made it out alive; certainly not me."

"It was just a lucky break, Booth; that's all. I'm only sorry that I couldn't deal with Grant sooner. I was too woozy right after I got whacked to feel like I could pull anything off with any amount of success-I kept blacking out. Nighttime was what finally gave me the confidence to try-that, and what Grant was about to do to you. I knew I couldn't afford to put it off any longer."

"I owe you one, Sweets; you did good. Really good-you more than earned your stripes yesterday," Booth told him. The sincerity of that remark had the odd effect of causing Sweets to sway from foot to foot listlessly, as if the praise made him uncomfortable.

"You saved my life earlier; I was half-awake when Grant made that comment about putting me out of my misery, and I swear I literally saw my life flash before my eyes-I guess it's not just a thing people say. Although I sort of took offense at the paper-pusher comment. Burn!" Sweets replied with a forced laugh.

"Sorry about that" Booth answered softly. It was unsettling to think that Sweets had overheard the conversation he had with Grant; he could understand how his cold, dismissive words might have really wounded his newly-minted partner. "I needed to make it clear to Grant that you weren't a threat-you know I didn't mean any of it. I just couldn't come up with anything else."

"I know."

The two men locked eyes, and suddenly Booth clammed up and turned his head away. He seemed mesmerized by the edges of the white sheet that lay on his lap, pulling them between his fingers while occasionally throwing a darting look in Sweets' direction with something like remorse.

"I'm sorry that you were the one who ended up having to kill Grant" he finally said after a long moment of silence. "I wish I could have spared you that experience."

Sweets shook his head in an offhand way.

"What are you talking about, Booth? It wasn't a choice-him or you? Please-as if. I didn't even have to think about it."

"You still had to pull the trigger and end somebody's life. That first one...that first one is hard; I know. Don't get me wrong, they all are, except that with your first one, that's when you really understand just how much of a big deal it is. It's not theoretical anymore. Believe me," he said with a brittle half-laugh; "I still remember _exactly_ how disturbing that first time was. You really should talk to someone about it, and not just me or Daisy. You should go see a professional."

"Like a licensed psychologist with lots of degrees?" Sweets answered lightly. "I'm totally fine with it, Booth; honestly, I am" he repeated, but with a burgeoning unease in his eyes that seemed to contradict that notion.

"Did _you_ go to see anyone to deal with it?" he asked Booth tentatively.

"No-but that was a different time; the Army wasn't the best at those things back then-maybe still isn't. Maybe won't ever be. And I was too young and too arrogant to understand that I actually could have used the help. It took me a long time to even remotely come to terms with what I'd done, and in the meantime, the body count just kept getting higher and heavier. I could have saved myself some rough days and nights with a little help-there were things that came out of those experiences which I-and the people around me-could have really done without."

"You should listen to Booth and go seek counseling, Sweets," Brennan joined in.

Sweets mouth dropped open in shock.

"Wow, both you and Booth sending me to get 'shrinked'? Neither of you even believes in that stuff. You guys must really think I'm a mess. Do I look that bad?"

"No; we just both know what it does to a person. Promise me you'll do it, Sweets," Booth ordered.

"Yeah, yeah; maybe I will" Sweets finally agreed.

If the people he looked up to the most weren't treating the matter as a joke, perhaps neither should he.

"I'm kind of numb all over right now, but I have a feeling that you might be right; things might be coming to the surface later, when the shock and the novelty of what happened yesterday has worn off."

As Sweets watched the tired couple in front of him, tired to pieces himself, the thought started creeping up on him that he might have overstayed his welcome.

"I think I'll give you guys your time together back. Daisy's probably getting nervous about me, and I don't want her barging in."

"Sweets..."

He was turning to leave when he heard Booth's voice, so weighed down by self-doubt that it made him stop in his tracks.

"What was it?" Booth asked.

Sweets spun around to find his partner looking at him with a troubled expression.

"Excuse me?"

He really had absolutely no idea what Booth was referring to.

"What was it that made Grant shoot Gustavson-did he see me?"

The picture came together rather swiftly in Sweets' mind; Booth was already pointing the finger at himself for whatever had gone wrong at the warehouse.

"Booth..." Brennan began as she stared at her mate, her brow creasing with concern and frustration.

"We were _this_ close. I thought I had him" Booth continued, talking to no one in specific now. He was clearly obsessing over a sequence of events that apparently had neither a head nor a tail as far as he could tell. "I really did. All of a sudden, I hear a shot, you're on the floor, and I'm being blown against the wall-and Gustavson's dead. Did Grant figure out I was there? Is that what made him shoot Erik? I want the truth, Sweets-you saw it all, firsthand; you _have_ to know."

Sweets had very seldom seen his colleague this torn up, and he felt sorry for him. Fault, there always had to be fault, and there had to be retribution, or at the very least, accountability; it was the way that things worked for Booth. Sweets smiled at his friend in a bittersweet way, feeling inspired as well as daunted by his courage and his moral integrity.

The truth for him, always, no matter how much it might hurt.

"No, it wasn't you" Sweets answered unequivocally. "I've gone over yesterday's events a thousand times in my head since I got here, and I always come up with the same answer. I'm fairly certain that unfortunately, it was Agent Erickson himself who accidentally tipped off Grant."

"No; I can't accept that answer-how's that even possible? No way. Erik was a veteran, a pro, especially in those types of situations."

"Perhaps in this one instance that was a handicap, sort of an Achilles heel, in the sense that it made him over-confident."

Booth shook his head vehemently, refusing to accept any scenario where his murdered colleague could have messed up.

"No, absolutely not. It can't be" he replied flatly.

"I know it's painful for you to hear this because of your many years of service with Agent Gustavson and your personal relationship with him, but you asked me for the truth and I'm giving it to you, as your friend and as your partner; I'm sorry if it upsets you."

Sweets could tell that Booth was profoundly rattled by his assessment; his jaw clenched tight and his entire body tensed with repressed anger. In his agitation, he started to pull himself up on his elbows to try to sit up until a quick-thinking Brennan put a restraining hand on his arm, preventing him from moving any further and in all probability also preserving the delicate, time-consuming work that the surgeons had performed the night before as they raced against the clock to stitch his body back together.

Sweets wondered whether to leave the subject alone or to at least sugar-coat the details, given the effects it was having on Booth. But upon further consideration, he decided that because of who Booth was at the core, he was under a moral obligation to provide his partner with the whole story. He owed him that, and he could only hope that after a cooling-off period and some time to think things over, the truth would do some good. If not now, maybe later.

"Like you said; I was there, Booth; I _saw_ it. The other guys, Cooper and the rest, had already left. Markowitz was on his way out, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Agent Gustavson give him this little smile and what looked like a very small thumbs-up. I'm positive about that, because at the time the gesture made me extremely uneasy. I'm not the only one good at reading body language-it's a basic skill that many people, you included, possess and navigate by; it's why it exists in the first place. It helps people to determine whether they might be in a vulnerable position. I was hoping that Grant had missed it, because the message behind the sign had been so apparent to me, but right after it happened, Grant's expression changed. He stopped talking to me and he looked...I don't know," Sweets said, grasping fruitlessly for the right word.

"Satisfied," he finally said. "I guess he looked satisfied, in a strange way. Like the gesture had confirmed something that he'd been feeling for a while, but that he couldn't put his finger on. Next thing I know, he takes out his gun like, _unbelievably_ fast, and shoots Agent Gustavson in the head. You thanked me before, and I accepted your gratitude, but the fact is that your praise filled me with shame because I don't deserve any of it. Here's why: I froze. I could have grabbed my gun and taken Grant out when I saw him aiming at Gustavson, and instead, I just froze. By the time I got my act together, he was conking me on the head with his gun, and next thing I know the Edwards girl was looking at me all weird, shaking her head when I tried to move. So there you have it; the truth and nothing but the whole truth, just like you wanted. If I had killed that bastard when I had the chance, Agent Gustavson might still be alive and you wouldn't be stuck in intensive care after having had to fight for your life half the night."

Sweets looked utterly appalled by his own admission, and younger than his years as he seemed on the verge of a crying jag.

Booth and Brennan couldn't help but stare at him with compassion.

"Don't do this to yourself" Booth said, his earlier anger gone; "I've been through that, and it's pointless. We were doing our best, every single person in that room, and that's the most that anyone could ask of us. We could go on forever, you and me-I could have shot him myself earlier-not tried to wait until the very last second to bring him down. You did what you had to do, when you were able to do it. And if anyone here is to blame, it would be me for putting you in that impossible situation to begin with. You just had the misfortune of being tested out on the field for you very first time when the margin for error was so unbelievably small. But you kept Grant busy while all those people were being evacuated; only a really smart guy and a very brave, very mature person could have gotten away with fooling a serial killer who had managed to out-think everyone else for weeks. So give yourself a break, okay?"

"Are you going to give yourself one too?" Sweets asked.

"Yeah-I think I will" Booth said with a lump in his throat, tilting his head towards Brennan as he searched her eyes for a reason to be able to do just that. She smiled at him in return; a smile that spoke of approval and love, and he sank back into his pillow with a sigh, looking calmer.

After squeezing Booth's arm reassuringly, Brennan rose from her chair, walked up to Sweets, and placed a small kiss on his cheek.

"Thank you again, Sweets. What you just told us doesn't change how proud Booth and I are of you-and it shouldn't change how you view yourself. Booth is correct, you were both extremely smart and very brave, and had you not possessed those qualities, I would not have gotten Booth back alive."

"Lance?" Daisy's hesitant voice called out to her boyfriend from behind the door.

"Coming, Daisy."

"Sweets, before you go" Booth asked, "did you put any of that in your report-the part about Erik maybe tipping Grant off by accident?"

"No; I haven't prepared my final report yet; I've only been questioned sparingly-doctors' orders."

"Leave that out okay, as a personal favor to me? I don't want anyone questioning anything in his record."

"Absolutely; I was already planning on omitting that observation. Besides, it was a purely personal and highly subjective reading of the situation on my part-it doesn't belong in an official file."

It was over all too soon.

Angela and Hodgins came by a few minutes after Sweets' departure to pry Brennan away from Booth's unyielding grasp for her obligatory bed rest; Booth could definitely use some shut-eye too. But by the time they came to collect her, both the artist and the entomologist noted with pleasure that their two friends were already decidedly looking much better. As they had hoped, an hour together had done wonders for the pair.

Much more, for sure, than any little blue pill the hospital could hand out.

_Hang on! Almost there, amigos. Almost there..._


	40. The Long Way Home

_Whether good or bad, it's here. After having to reconstruct three separate edits that vanished from my computer without warning, I'm beat. Happy Friday all!_

Two weeks had gone by since Booth's release from the hospital; two weeks in which the Booth/Brennan household had been attempting to make a return back to normal without, its two primary members would secretly agree, making much if any progress.

Brennan, her patience gone along with her waistline, had finally been released from the prison of bed rest by her doctors, but was still admonished against doing too much until the arrival of the baby. The grounds of the Jeffersonian were strictly off-limits except for a few hours of desk work per day, which translated into her having to perform many of her duties from home. It also meant having all the time in the world to go over her interns' research. End result, a staff who offered up their findings to their boss knowing that major faults would be found after every hand-off, and who also felt pressured into sharing whatever minutiae came in through the doors of the lab with her. Even inconsequential details that, were she in the office, probably would never have merited her attention.

As for Booth, he was still too weak to sit or stand for prolonged periods of time, and he'd categorically been ordered to stay off his feet altogether until his wounds had healed sufficiently for him to start attending rehab. Going back to the office for any length of time wasn't an option for him, and unfortunately, the FBI wasn't nearly as indulgent about sending over case files for him to look at as the Jeffersonian was with Brennan.

Given what headaches the lab's staff was contending with, his colleagues at the Hoover felt that they had definitely gotten the better end of _that_ bargain.

All around, the picture wasn't pretty-especially at home.

Two inherently active, driven people cooped up for most of their time, both desperate to regain some measure of independence and a little slice of their freedom back despite the indisputable fact that neither was in any condition to do so. And sometimes even their vast amounts of love for each other didn't seem like quite enough to help them overcome the negative effects of all that forced and uneventful time together.

One rainy Wednesday morning, the close quarters finally proved to be too much for Brennan.

After having heard Booth complain yet again about how there was nothing for him to do even though she had suggested several attractive options, including a modestly informing documentary about the Hittite Empire being shown on the History Channel, the anthropologist made up her mind to head to work. She was planning on spending a good portion of her day there, even if it was bound to make her obstetrician-and in all probability her partner as well-deeply unhappy.

She made sure Booth's sandwich was somewhere in the fridge where he could find it, and then she grabbed her jacket, determined to callously leave her mate to his own devices, seated in front of the tv surfing through shows that she knew he couldn't stand. Why would he do this to himself day after day, she wondered? During her own brief exposure to the nonstop daytime chatter coming from the large screen in their living room, she could swear she had actually heard her brains cells screaming as they tried processing the dreadful, over-the-top scenarios that were inexplicably served up as 'entertainment.'

The sudden shrillness of a couple hurling insults at each other over paternity results caused her to stop in her tracks, until the dizzying channel-changing began anew.

Best to leave now in case there were even more offensive things waiting to assault her intellect.

She perfunctorily kissed Booth goodbye on her way to the door, avidly eyeballing the car keys on the hallway table which would provide her means of escape. He'd apparently settled on a rewatch of a vintage basketball game with players she'd never heard of, the outcome of which had been decided eons ago.

"The Hittite documentary is still on, as is a rerun of a program about the capture of Spain by the Vandals. There's lots of war involved," she offered helpfully.

He looked back at her, making a face, like he'd just bitten into a lemon.

"No thanks."

"I was under the impression that military history was of interest to you; the Peloponnesian Wars seemed to have captured your attention a while back."

"I hate to break it to you, but it wasn't my fascination with the Peloponnesians that had me almost going to that lecture, if you haven't figured that one out yet" he said, winking at her.

She smiled. Yes, at some point it had occurred to her that the ancient Greeks might not have been what Booth found so captivating more than a year ago, as the two of them discussed their respective plans for their day off right after their impromptu race to the coffee cart.

"I won't be back until late afternoon; a very intriguing set of remains just arrived at the Jeffersonian, and I'm certain that the staff would appreciate my expertise on site."

"Bones…"

She had her speech all prepared, in the hopes of calming him down.

"I will only be standing for short periods of time, I will stay properly nourished and hydrated throughout the day, and I will not exert myself in any way that could trigger new contractions. Are you feeling sufficiently reassured by my promises?"

"No, but I get it. I'm climbing the walls being stuck inside here too. Truth is, I wish I was going with you, even if it was just to hang out at the lab with the squints."

Her shoulders slumped as she saw his pouting, gaunt face with its still visible shiner, and she managed to divert her pining eyes away from the car keys long enough to look at her partner with sympathy.

"I'm sorry; I know this is a very frustrating time for you as well. Would you like me to stay? We could play another round of Scrabble or Parcheesi."

"I don't know what's worse, you beating my ass off at kids' games, or me sitting here watching a fifteen-year old basketball game" he answered. "Go, go" he commanded, shooing her away with his hand. "No reason the two of us should suffer."

"Are you sure you don't need more Vicodin? It would at least allow you to rest."

"I hate that stuff; makes me nauseous."

"Nauseated" she corrected.

"Whatever. It makes me sick to my stomach, and as nice as it was not bending over in pain the first couple of days after I got shot, I really don't like feeling that out-of-control for days on end. What I need is a workout" he said, flexing his biceps.

"I would highly advise against doing anything that strenuous. You're making me nervous, Booth. Perhaps I should stay to ensure that you don't do anything foolish."

"Don't need a babysitter, but thanks. Listen Bones, I won't go crazy, I promise. I'm just venting 'cause I'm bored, not to try to guilt you into staying. So off you go. God, what a beautiful pass-three pointer, yes!"

She was confused by the comment until she realized that he was looking at the tv and not at her. At least it was comforting to think that she was abandoning him with something he appeared to be enjoying, even though he'd probably experienced that particular game in real time already. Maybe it wasn't the Hittites or the Vandals, but she accepted the fact that the team with the red and white uniforms and an angry bull's head as its symbol was probably as close as it got to a love of ancient history for Booth.

She took his off-tangent remark as tacit permission to leave, and she did just that, careful to avoid looking back at him in case she found another reason to stay. Even with the exasperation that came with prolonged exposure to her mate under less than perfect circumstances, ever since she had gotten him back, taking her eyes off him had required a kind of irrational resolve she had never needed before. She though of the cautionary tale of Orpheus, and how the mythical musician had lost what he loved the most by trying to keep his eyes on it after having been warned repeatedly not to do so.

Besides, leaving was exactly what she needed to do in order to bring things back into familiar territory between her and Booth.

It was late afternoon when Brennan finally returned home, fully expecting to find her mate almost exactly where she'd left him. She was pleasantly surprised when she noticed that he had somehow managed to flee the gravitational pull of the couch. Laying her hand on the spot he preferred, she noticed it was cool to the touch, as was the television set.

Perhaps he'd gone upstairs to take that nap, after all.

Further sleuthing through their house found no trace of him, except for a trail of his worn clothes in their bathroom and what looked like absolute proof that he'd showered and shaved. For a minute she worried that he had unwisely headed to the gym and then gone on to run some minor errand, until she saw two empty hangers laying on their bed.

One of them was a suit hanger.

He went to work, she thought sourly, already starting to feel her blood pressure rising.

A quick scan of his closet provided further evidence that he was doing something he shouldn't be; she could tell immediately that his ties had been rifled through.

Just as she was getting ready to call him on his cell phone to ask him where he was, she heard the front door open and she huffed her way down the stairs to confront him. Her suspicions as to his whereabouts were immediately confirmed when she saw him wearing one of his standard work suits and a rather conservative tie; he was also carrying several bags of groceries, wincing in pain as he labored to lift them up onto their kitchen counter.

"Booth, you shouldn't be lifting heavy items. In fact, you shouldn't be setting foot outside the house yet."

He jumped, rattled by her sudden appearance.

"You about gave me a heart attack-I didn't think you'd be home yet."

"And you assumed that if I wasn't here to witness your transgression, that it would somehow make it more acceptable?" she asked archly.

"It wasn't a big deal, Bones; I just stopped by the store to pick up a few groceries for us-we're running really low on supplies. It was nice that our friends brought us all that food, but I'm in the mood to start eating my own kind of stuff. And no offense to Daisy; I mean, I know she's trying to be helpful and all, but her lasagna sucks-too much sauce and not enough noodles. And I'm probably going straight to hell for saying that."

"While I fully agree with your take on her culinary skills, thus placing me right alongside you in your imaginary hell, it doesn't alter the fact that in your condition, lifting anything heavy could lead to a hemorrhage. The sutures just came off; you could reopen your wound, both externally and internally," she chided with a worried frown.

"Well, we need to go to the grocery store if we're going to eat more than soupy lasagna, and it so happens that you shouldn't be lifting heavy stuff either. And since I'm the man and I'm not the one weeks away from popping out a brand new kid, I should at least bring home the bacon."

"Only literally-metaphorically, that description doesn't apply, since I earn considerably more than you."

"Thanks for that endearing reminder of your net worth," he said without animosity.

She took a box of strawberries out from one of the cloth shopping bags, looking distinctly depressed.

"I suppose that we have to accept the fact that between the two of us, we barely have the makings of one healthy adult."

They stared at each other for a while until they both spontaneously began cracking up, laughing uncontrollably at the inherent absurdity of their current situation. Underneath it all, maybe also feeling some relief to be unearthing traces of their former, more carefree life.

"Yeah, I guess so. Maybe I'll have Wendell stop by the store the next time" Booth said, gingerly rubbing his throbbing, itching ribcage once the laughter came to an end.

As soon as she regained her composure, Brennan zeroed in on his clothes.

"Why are you wearing a suit?" she asked suspiciously. "I can't imagine you would need to dress this conservatively to go to the supermarket, unless you're so desperate to discard your sweatpants and your t-shirts that you now consider shopping to be a formal occasion. Did you go to your office?" she inquired sharply, in the hopes of goading him into a quick confession.

"You're not supposed to return to work for at least another two weeks."

Instead of getting all defensive like he just had over the shopping, he turned his back to her and slowly began pulling out a loaf of bread from one of the bags, his eyes studiously glued to the surface of the counter.

"I didn't go to the office" he said without looking at her.

As soon as she heard the bare-bones reply, her incipient irritation disappeared.

"You went to see agent Gustavson's widow, didn't you," she stated gently, not really asking, because she was sure.

He nodded.

"By the way, she mentioned you went to the funeral; you didn't tell me that. You were supposed to be on bed rest."

"I knew you would have wanted to be there and since you couldn't, I felt the need to represent you."

"Well, it meant a lot to her; she was really touched by it, especially after what you had just gone through. So even though you shouldn't have done it, thanks."

Brennan drew closer to Booth, placing a hand on his arm and forcing him to look at her.

"You could have waited a few weeks before going all the way to his house; it's a least a two hour commute by car. Or you could have allowed me to drive you" she said, trying hard to convey the concept that he wasn't the only person in the world who could be injured by his rash behavior.

"It's fine, Bones; I needed to get out of here," he argued. "Besides, I heard she was moving soon; they'd already sold their house before this whole mess went down. I didn't want to miss her. Since I couldn't make it to the funeral, I wanted to at least stop by and tell her how sorry I was about what happened, to tell her how much Erik will be missed by everyone who knew him. And also to let her know how much courage it took for him to stay in that room, when he could have left with the rest of the crew. He was a real-life hero."

"Does she blame you?"

Booth smiled; he was so used to her directness that he wasn't even remotely blindsided by it, but he figured anyone else listening in on their conversation would have been horrified by the question and its implication.

"No," he answered honestly. "I really don't think so. She was the wife of a law enforcement officer. Spouses take it in stride when things go wrong, as much as anyone can; there's usually never any finger-pointing at colleagues. At the perpetrator and sometimes at the organization, sure, but not at other officers. These men and women who marry cops and firemen and soldiers-they live with the possibility every day that their loved ones could die on the line of duty. I think it's always lurking in the back of their minds that it could happen to the person they're with. Not everyone can take that kind of constant pressure, but Anne was-is-a really strong woman; she dealt with it, and she didn't let that take away from her life with Erik."

"What about you, do you still blame yourself?"

She was following every move he made.

"No, not really."

Her eyebrows rose disbelieving.

"Just sometimes, I guess" he finally admitted. "Thirty seconds more, Bones; that's all we needed. Thirty seconds. Half a minute and I would have taken that son-of-a-bitch down and Annie Gustavson would still have her husband."

"Thirty seconds can be a very long time, Booth. Enough for prospects to change drastically despite a person's best intentions."

The cryptic turn the conversation was taking was making Booth edgy. He loosened his tie, distracting himself from the sudden seriousness that had descended on their kitchen by walking over to the fridge and grabbing one of the root beers he'd just bought.

"You want one?"

She shook her head, still looking at him but saying nothing.

"So how was work?" he asked cheerfully.

It took a while before she answered.

"Considering that everyone insists on treating me as if I'm going to give birth at any moment although I have another month left before my due date arrives, not well. I think their collective solicitousness is finally getting to me," she said with a sigh. "It makes me feel rather guilty to be so unappreciative of their goodwill, somewhat like how you must feel about Daisy's failed lasagna."

Booth found this topic more soothing to his nerves, and they continued discussing her travails while they bickered over who would put the remaining groceries away. They ended up doing it together, eventually winding their way towards the living room couch, he with a root beer in hand and she with a glass of juice.

"Is Agent Gustavson's widow still planning on moving to Florida?"

"No, she's not," Booth answered softly. "That was kind of Erik's dream. He loved fishing and he loved hot weather; Anne, not so much. Matter of fact, she already put the Pensacola house on the market with a broker. She's heading over to Minnesota to be with her daughter and her husband instead. They had twins about a year ago; they can probably use all the help they can get."

"That's quite a dramatic change in climate and topography from where she was originally going to move to."

"Yup, it is. It's what happens when you have the rug pulled out from under you. You make plans thinking things are heading one direction and then-poof-life throws you a curve ball. She'll be okay up north though; I think she actually likes snow, unlike Erik."

"If she didn't care that much for Florida, why would she agree to move there with him in the first place?" Brennan asked.

"You know, Bones, they were together almost 40 years; they were high school sweethearts. It adds up. When you love someone that long, their dreams kind of become your own by default. Just like he took her to Vegas every spring for their big vacation even though it wasn't exactly his favorite place in the world. I don't think they cared where they went, as long as they were together."

"It will probably be very difficult for her to adjust to her new life."

"His death leaves her with a huge hole that'll be hard to fill, that's for sure."

He took a sip from his bottle.

"Two weeks, Bones, and they would've been fine, going straight into retirement. It doesn't seem fair that after all those years of having that kind of threat hanging over their heads, it should happen just as they were letting themselves believe the worrying was finally over."

He glanced over and saw that Brennan was staring into space, stone-cold silent, with that far-away look he'd seen so often on her face since he'd come back from the hospital. And even though he knew that despite their recent run of laughter things were off-way off-between them, had felt the awkwardness since coming home with her, so far he'd managed to keep the demons at bay. How much did he really want to know about her state of mind, anyway? Why couldn't he leave things alone, keep riding along on the easy surf, at least until he crashed headlong somewhere down the line into the fragile coastline that so often seemed to be their relationship? Somewhere that wasn't right here and now?

Booth cradled the amber bottle in his hands, rolling it back and forth between his palms while he looked at her, so suddenly cool and distant, like the moon hanging in the evening sky. They weren't sitting that far apart on their sofa, but it felt like there were miles and miles between them.

He didn't want to ask, really didn't, but in spite of that he decided the time had come. Even when it brought back memories of another question that had prompted her to flee for seven months to the jungles of Indonesia, almost as far away from him as she could physically get while still inhabiting the same planet as he.

It was tempting to put things off, but he also knew the recent spate of fair-weather in their house with all its niceties was a mirage; underneath the smooth crest of that wave he was on the waters were roiling. The issue wasn't whether he was willing to live with that state of deceit, but rather, for how long. He threw the dice on the table again, praying that the same luck that had spared his life a few weeks ago would continue for a little longer.

"Okay, let's have it; out with it" he said, having resigned himself to the worst.

"I don't know what you're referring to."

"No, c'mon; please don't do this. You know exactly what I'm talking about. You've been all quiet and mysterious since I got back from the hospital. That, or you've been making the weirdest, most off-the-wall comments. At first I thought it was just me and all the drugs, but that's not it, is it? Something's bugging you, and you've been too afraid or too considerate to bring it up. It has to do with me getting shot, isn't it? Look at me, Bones."

She tipped her head up, and he felt her ambivalence as she looked at him with eyes that were already welling up with tears.

"It was too close, Booth. Too close" she finally said with a rush of emotion. "Do you realize that I had no idea whether you were alive or not for most of the standoff? That I actually thought you were dead when I saw you lying on the floor of that warehouse? That when I saw the paramedics working over your body, searching for a pulse and not finding any, I was certain that the only thing I would have left of you would be our daughter? I've never experienced that kind of emptiness before, not even when I lost my parents. It was as if I had suddenly become hollow inside; as if part of me had died with you. I don't have to imagine how Anne Gustavson feels about the loss of her husband, because I know-for one horrible moment, I lived it."

"And you're worried that this is how it's always going to be for you now that we're together, with all these complicated emotions floating around? You dreading me getting killed at the start of every morning, kind of like how she must have lived? They had really good life with each other, Bones," he said, grasping at anything he could to reason with her. "They were happy, they raised a nice family. I'm sure most days something happening to Erik didn't even cross her mind. You're not actually considering putting the brakes on us because of what went on in that warehouse, are you?" he asked, with an emerging spark of hysteria to his voice.

"Bones, don't...please don't do that; this is good, what we have is really great. We can get past this, please," he begged. "Besides, no one knows how much time we have. You...you told me yourself that you could walk into the street and get hit by a taxi any time, remember? This thing with Erik might never happen to me."

"It almost did."

"But it didn't" he reiterated.

She covered her face with her hands, crying softly.

He slid closer to her on the couch, reaching out and wrapping her in his arms, enveloping her, as if by shielding her with his body he could keep her from reliving some of the terrible things she'd been through.

"I'm sorry Bones; I'm so sorry" he kept repeating, holding her and their unborn child tight against him.

"I'm okay; see?" he said, pushing himself away slightly and smiling at her. "Everything's back to the way it was. That thing with Grant was just a fluke-I'll be _way_ more careful next time; I won't let it happen again."

She wiped the tears away, looking at him with a forlorn smile.

"You can't make a promise like that, Booth. You know you can't. This isn't the first time your life's been in danger; remember that I've been your partner for over seven years-it's happened many times before. Being at the center of highly charged situations is a large part of your job description. More than that, it's a part of who you are."

"What do you want me to do, Bones" he replied dispiritedly. "Look, if my job upsets you this much, I'll change it; I'll put in for an administrative position. It's fine. I've been thinking about it anyway, with the baby coming-with my years in, I think I'd have a good shot at it. I don't want to see you this upset, ever."

"And then what," she replied quietly. "See you shrink away with boredom and resentment after having been asked by the one person who should respect you and your abilities the most to turn yourself into something you're not? I could never do that to you, Booth."

"So what now?" he asked, hating himself for opening that door, a door that never seemed to lead anywhere good.

Brennan stared at him for a second and then looked down at her splayed-out fingers, lost in thoughts that scared him to death.

A vast silence engulfed them, worst than any possible answer she could have given him, and he closed his eyes in despair when she left the sofa and walked upstairs without him.

Was this really it? Could it all be over, just like that?

Thirty seconds; the same thirty seconds that had ended his colleague's life, had apparently also wiped out his relationship with the woman he loved. Thirty seconds which, no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't erase from any of their lives; not from his, or Bones', or Anne or Erik Gustavson's.


End file.
